


Party Till I Die

by bifmonzo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Angels vs. Demons, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Heaven & Hell, M/M, Romance, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:21:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27850758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bifmonzo/pseuds/bifmonzo
Summary: Eternity is forever. It's also annoyingly predictable, or rather it was until someone lost a few incredibly invaluable and irreplaceable trumpets. And somewhere along the line, definitely before the whole trumpet thing, a demon fell for the one thing he knew he couldn't have. Dramione, Heaven vs. Hell AU with a sprinkle of Harry/Theo, Blaise/Ginny, and Ron/Pansy.
Relationships: Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Comments: 49
Kudos: 57





	1. Low life for life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And she's back with another one! This is going to be quite a bit different than Inheritance, so buckle up. I'm going full Heaven vs. Hell AU with an ensemble cast and absolutely no canon relationships (sorry folks). The premise of this story is inspired heavily by Good Omens* written by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett, and the title is pulled directly from a Kim Petras song (because in this house, we stan the spooky queen of Halloween).
> 
>  **summary** : Eternity is forever. It's also annoyingly predictable, or rather it was until someone lost a few incredibly invaluable and irreplaceable trumpets. And somewhere along the lines, definitely before the whole trumpet thing, a demon fell for the one thing he knew he couldn't have. Dramione, Heaven vs. Hell AU with a sprinkle of Harry/Theo, Blaise/Ginny, and Ron/Pansy.
> 
>  **disclaimer:** These characters were created by JK Rowling, and I'm just here to throw them into something totally outrageous.
> 
>  **cw:** there will be a lot everything – sex, drugs, violence/gore, and we'll be jumping right into it, so gird your loins!
> 
> *No actual antichrists were harmed in the making of this story.

Humans.

They're all so damn predictable.

It really doesn't take much to make them the perfect amount of suggestible. Pack them into a small space, pump them full of liquor (or whatever drug has been deemed the new favorite), turn the music up to eleven, and they all – _all of them_ – will start doing wonderfully naughty things.

One shot too many, and the girl who swore she'd never talk to _him_ again will be latched onto his lips, letting him finger her in the middle of the dance floor. Some crushed up Adderall, and the frat boy who spent most of his adolescence bullying anyone who lived a less than hetero life out in the open will be on his knees in the bathroom eagerly sucking someone's cock. And with some combination of the two, the man who promised – _cross his heart and hope to die_ promised – that he'd never cheat on his wife ever again will wake up with his face buried between someone else's legs.

It was all so Old Testament, and so incredibly fucking repetitive.

But watching a human crumble apart, no matter how many times the same scenario played itself out, was also, without a doubt, Draco's favorite guilty pleasure. And once the fireworks started, no one, not even the Devil himself, could force him to look away.

Draco was a demon – a bloody good one at that – and like the rest of his kind, human depravity was truly the only currency that mattered to him. His entire existence centered around cultivating just the right set of circumstances for humans to become the most devious versions of themselves, and no matter how boring things got, no matter how easy his pawns slipped into his well-laid traps, he lusted for those moments in a way that would have been grossly inappropriate for anyone outside of his line of work. He wasn't just designed to get off on human pain (although he did, very much so), he had been sent up to Earth for one thing: to torment people until their souls were splendidly irredeemable.

There really was nothing quite like the high he got from witnessing someone's spectacular fall from grace, nothing quite like the delight he felt when someone let slip their deepest, darkest desires before acting on them in horribly exciting ways, but what he craved the most were someone's mortal sins, the ones that when tallied with everyone else's would eventually tip the scales in his side's favor. Those grisly transgressions weren't just invigorating, they were delectable, and Draco, the deviant that he was, enjoyed playing a part in someone's catastrophic self-destruction almost as much as loved coming.

Almost.

It's just that coming, preferably while buried deep inside someone else, was a wonderfully addictive thing.

And fortunately, sexual debauchery wasn't just encouraged for someone like him, it was built into his damn DNA.

Long before Draco had joined the ranks of Earthly tormentors, demons were simply sent above in the same beautifully grotesque forms they took whilst in Hell. However, it became obvious fairly quickly that those forms made it a bit too difficult to accomplish all of their work – demons couldn't exactly run around demon-ing very well if they couldn't get close to humans – and so, eventually every demon fated for the surface was issued a corporeal human form with all the accompanying accoutrement. And because there was nothing good-intentioned about a demon pretending to be anything but itself, it didn't take terribly long for any of them to figure out all the ways that they could use their newfound parts.

(And yes, that means exactly what you think it means.)

Demons _loved_ fucking, more so probably than any other type of being, and Draco was certainly no exception, but being able to mingle undetected with humans meant he could finally dabble in the no-strings-attached-swiftly-followed-by-a-thorough-ghosting kind of penetration that hadn't been afforded to him when he was just another demon in Hell. And as it turned out, humans rather enjoyed fucking too, and at least in the confines of their own bedrooms, really did know how to have quite a bit of fun.

Draco didn't actually need to be beautiful to get people in bed, a demon never did, but he was better endowed than most, and his near-perfect human form had served him exceptionally well during his two millennia tenure on Earth. He was tall, broad, and beautifully pale which made him look, ironically, rather angelic, and there was something unmistakably noble and aristocratic about the way he carried himself, granting him a kind of power that humans just couldn't resist. His human body certainly helped him amass quite the long list of misdeeds, but the vast majority of his successes, especially the ones that resulted in the demise of entire kingdoms, could be attributed solely to his cock.

The exquisite appendage had helped him infiltrate royal courts, supplant kings, trick entire countries into attacking things that didn't need attacking, take down churches (and a few popes), disrupt law and order where things were generally lawful and orderly, and on one particularly difficult to explain occasion, buy his way off a cursed pirate ship. He buried it in women, men, and everyone who identified somewhere in between, and the fact that humans always seemed to make a fuss about the whole thing seemed rather ridiculous to him – fucking was fucking after all, and he would never apologize for where his libido took him, especially when the salacious act brought him both pleasure and professional prestige.

His cock was his prized possession, his Excalibur, and for all of the aforementioned reasons, he was incredibly fond of it.

He had been on Earth for so long that he couldn't actually remember the face of the first person he had the luxury of penetrating, but he would never forget how it had felt, how spilling into that first warm, wet hole that surely should have been too small for anything but a finger had made him nearly lose his mind. It felt fucking amazing (still did), so it was no wonder the other side, the horrid gatekeepers that they were, fought so adamantly for so long to keep people from taking any sort of enjoyment from it.

Idiots, the lot of them.

But if he had learned anything from his time on Earth, it was that there was always an exception to any rule. And naturally, she was like nothing he ever thought an angel could be.

The first time he laid eyes on her was over a thousand years ago in the middle of a battlefield.

She had been covered in blood, screaming loudly as she wielded a sword that probably weighed more than she did soaking wet. Of course, he had known what she was right away, could have sensed it from miles away, and was immediately intrigued by her somewhat unorthodox approach to her heavenly duties. No doubt, she had been sent there to thwart him – or had he been sent there to thwart her? he couldn't remember – but there was something in her eyes, a madness of sorts, that he was sure shouldn't possibly be allowed to exist in someone who was supposed to be virginal and pure.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye, licking the blood off his lips as he continued to drive his sword into any man marching under the opposing red and yellow flag. He loved the brutality of war, and working amongst the Northmen had probably been the least amount of bored he'd been in centuries, but not even all the death and suffering (which he enjoyed immensely) were enough to distract him from her.

It wasn't the first time he had come across an angel in the field, there were certainly one or two who deserved nothing less than a good ole neck snapping, but it was the first time he'd come across an angel who quite literally took his breath away.

And she was spectacular.

Her golden-brown hair flew wildly around her head as she fought, giving the illusion that she was wearing an elaborate crown, and not even the blood on her face nor the hideous colors she was donning could dim the glow of her rich caramel skin. She was small but impressively strong, carrying herself with a kind of grace more fitting for a queen than a foot soldier for some eternally doomed king. Draco tried to look away, he really did, and he tried to pretend that he hadn't seen her, that she had no effect on him whatsoever, but when he felt her eyes finally bore into him from somewhere across the field, the pretense was up.

He took out nearly thirty men trying to get to her, because staying away from her wasn't an option anymore, and when he was finally able to step unencumbered into her view, she simply smirked at him and slid gracefully off the horse she had wrangled under her control.

_"You should take your Northmen home," she told him, her voice soft but commanding as she wiped at the side of her mouth._

_"And why the fuck would I do that?" he replied, studying her curiously. "We're winning." He cocked his head slightly, gesturing around him with bloodied hands._

_And the Northmen were, winning that was. The Northumbrian King she was fighting for was as good as dead. The fool had sealed his own fate as well as that of all of the men fighting in his name the moment he chose to murder the wrong fucking Viking, and anyone who tried to stop the invading army from getting to him didn't stand a chance in hell of doing anything about it._

_She didn't reply right away, and her eyes narrowed as she finally took a moment to assess the carnage around her. "For now," she admitted, suddenly throwing her sword at his feet. "For now."_

She didn't take her eyes off him, didn't even flinch, not even when he played his barbarous part and tossed her violently into the mud before any of the other men around him could. And still, even though she could miracle her way out the entire situation, she allowed herself to be chained up and corralled with the other hostages. Even after he walked away to join in a celebratory _skål_ , Draco could see a fire burning so deep in her eyes that he thought the area around her would burst into flames. Whatever her motives were, he couldn't tell, but he was curious, and so instead of returning to the battlefield to help with the 'clean up' (read: murdering), he concealed himself nearby, watching and waiting and completely incapable of focusing on anything but _her_.

In the end, they had both been right. Her side lost in a spectacularly gruesome way that day, but decades later, Draco's side, much to his chagrin, was eventually expelled. And in the grand scheme of things, none of it really mattered – their sides' interests changed more frequently than the weather, and so too did their respective orders.

What actually mattered was that Draco, for some asinine reason, decided to make quite an elaborate show of breaking her out of the chains she had been put in before she could be whisked away, and that she, for some equally stupid reason, immediately transported them to the nearest unoccupied bed. And then, because none of that had been ridiculous enough, they proceeded to fuck each other with such a fury that neither of them had been capable of moving for days afterward.

It turns out that nothing fucks quite like an angel, and Draco, not caring about any of the potential consequences of involving himself with someone from the opposition, had been truly and royally screwed from the moment he first exploded inside of her.

Now, bending the rules was what demons did, but if there ever was a rule which if broken was grounds for termination, it would be don't fraternize with the enemy. Unfortunately, Draco couldn't help himself, and the battle had only been the beginning of his stupidity.

Every decade or so, and definitely intentionally, they'd find each other in the middle of some battleground or another. They'd bicker, continuing whatever it was they were doing before the other had arrived, and then, when their tasks were complete (or smoldering in ruins compliments of the other), they'd hastily make their way to some run-down building for a few rounds of incredibly mind-blowing sex. Sometimes their rendezvous would last for days, both of them neglecting their other bodily human needs to the point that they made themselves ill, while other times they were lucky to have an hour, nearly killing each other in the process of seeing how fast and hard they could fuck each other's brains out, but the moments were still theirs, and they were, surprisingly, more than enough for either of them.

It was dangerous, not to mention incomprehensibly stupid, but neither of them seemed capable of stopping whatever it was they were doing. Draco knew that she lusted after their time together as much as he did. He knew she searched for him just as often as he searched for her when they were forced apart by their duties to their sides. And he knew, despite never hearing her say the words, that she cared deeply for him. But he was a demon, and she was an angel, and they were, without a doubt, never meant to be anything other than enemies.

Unfortunately, no matter how much they tried to convince themselves otherwise, it never was just a simple hate-fucking.

Draco shouldn't have felt anything for her, shouldn't have been so drawn to someone born on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, and yet, he did and he was. He may have been given a human form, but he hadn't been given a heart – at least not a beating one – and for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why any of it mattered, why of all the beings he'd come across that it was _her_ that he couldn't get out of his head.

Perhaps more importantly was the mind-bending quandary of what the hell an angel like _her_ was doing messing around with someone like _him_?

Of course, they were never together, not really, and even if they had been, he wasn't sure it would have made a difference. She had done the one thing he couldn't; she disappeared and never came back.

It had been over fifty years since he had seen her last, and even for someone blessed with eternity, that was far too long. Draco wanted to wring her neck and put her back in the chains he had long since freed her from; he wanted to throw her against the wall and fuck her senseless, and he wanted to do all those things at the same time. She was infuriating and beautiful, and he had almost convinced himself that he was irrevocably and dangerously in love with her.

But _love_ wasn't real, and he knew that.

He looked for her of course, telling himself it was simply because the sex had been so good, but she seemed to slip through his fingers each time he thought he'd cornered her in some godforsaken corner of the world, and when he accepted that she just didn't want to be found, he tried to forget her the only way he knew how. Unfortunately, even after all of the time and distance (and alcohol he'd drained from cellars around the world), he still couldn't erase the last gut-wrenching memory of her from his mind.

" _We can't keep meeting like this," she had told him as she climbed out of bed, the pearly white sheen of her tattooed wings glistening in the morning sun._

" _We always meet like this," he replied, leaning back against the pillow, his arms folded behind his head. "That much will never change."_

" _They'll find out eventually," came her reply, her voice just as angelic and pure as the rest of her._

_Draco almost laughed but thought better of it. No one was watching them. No one really cared what they did in their free time. The space between their worlds would always just be a playground for their respective sides, a test-ground for what was to come._

" _And would it really matter if they did?" he asked seriously, pushing himself upright so that he could sneak behind her._

" _Perhaps not for you," she replied, moaning softly as he wrapped his arms around her. "But it would be a much longer fall for me."_

_She wasn't wrong._

" _Ahh, but the creatures of the dark get to have all the fun," he told her, pausing to kiss her neck. "Black would suit you," he added, running his fingers along her back._

_Despite having done this with her at least a thousand times, and once a few minutes ago, the black wings tattooed on his own back still shivered in anticipation. Being with her, even if just for an hour, was the only thing that got him through his annoyingly mundane existence._

" _Well, do you want me to stop?" he asked when she remained quiet, his lips hovering near her pulse point._

_She turned to face him, the gold in her eyes threatening to consume him._

" _Never."_

If he had known that was her goodbye, if he had known that she was planning to bolt, he wouldn't have rushed it. He would have taken his sweet damn time. He would have kissed her harder, thrown her against the wall and punished her for what she was about to do.

But of course, he didn't and so he couldn't do any of it. Instead, they parted ways like they always did, and then, she simply never came back.

Half a century, and Draco was finally over it; he had (absolutely) moved on, fucking his way through most of Europe until his balls ached – and not pleasantly. Memories of her definitely didn't haunt his very existence, and he definitely didn't think about her every time he saw someone with a head full of bushy brown hair – not all all. It had all been so un-demon-like anyways. He should have never let it get so personal, never should have gotten so attached, and honestly, he should be thanking her for ghosting him like she did. After a thousand years of being wrapped around her adorably dainty finger, he was finally back to his heartless ways.

And thank Beelzebub for that.

He was once again free to do whatever the hell he wanted, with whomever he wanted (not that she had ever stopped him), living his life harder and faster than he ever had before, and it was more exhilarating than he remembered – at least that's what he tried to tell himself. And sure, his life wasn't exactly a life per se, at least not in a way a human would understand, but it was _his_ , and perhaps more important was the fact that it, whatever _it_ was, was still pure unadulterated joy.

Except maybe, he had to admit, in this particular instance.

Draco's eyes scanned the sea of gyrating bodies below him as he leaned slightly over the metal railing at the edge of a lofted VIP section at the back of a ridiculously popular nightclub. His head was resting lazily on one of his hands, smooshing the side of his face, and his hips were thrown backward with one foot crossed over the other. It wasn't the most dignified of stances, especially for someone who was supposed to be in charge of the place and _especially_ not in his ridiculously expensive Italian-made silk suit, but he had run out of fucks to give a few hours ago.

He was nursing a glass of bourbon which was tipped dangerously to the side almost to the point that the dark amber liquid within was threatening to spill over into the crowd below him. But the drink would be wasted on them, and he knew it, so he just let it sit there, waiting for something, anything really, to save him from his current nightmare.

Playing mysterious club owner was just a tad too pedestrian for him, and not even the near constant ogling from people in the mass below, which in any other moment and on any other day would have tickled him deeply, was enough to pull him out of the piss poor mood he was in. He needed to get out of there. He should be on the prowl, searching for a new collection of wretched souls ripe for corruption and doing wonderfully twisted things to keep his thoughts from wandering toward memories he'd rather forget.

_Fucking, Blaise._

This was _his_ club – his baby or brainchild or whatever the fuck he was calling it this week – and Draco was sick of babysitting it for him. He really did have shit to do, and he didn't have all night.

Well, technically he had an eternity, but who was really counting?

"If you're going to douse the patrons, you could at least do it with something that didn't cost me an arm and a leg."

"You certainly took your time," Draco said, not bothering to turn around. "Where the fuck have you been?" he added as he finally leveled his glass, making sure to emphasize his words with a bit more venom than usual.

"Got held up," Blaise replied, shrugging as he summoned a glass of his own and moved up to the railing to survey the tangled mess of bodies below. "Don't tell me you're bored?"

"To death," Draco told him, rolling his eyes. "If I had one, I'd have stabbed myself in the heart hours ago." He paused, crinkling his nose as he gestured at the crowd. "The smell in here is awful."

Blaise laughed. "You've been above ground for thousands of years," he began, pausing to take a sip of his drink, "thought you'd be used to stench by now."

Draco grunted, and took a much too large sip from his glass. "One is fine, two is somewhat bearable, but crowds – they're not really my thing."

"They certainly don't seem bothered by your disdain," Blaise countered, smirking as his eyes caught the hopeful gazes of at least twenty people staring at the towering blond next to him.

"For fuck's sake," Draco growled before swallowing the rest of his drink. "As if I'd stoop that low," he added, even though that's precisely what he was going to do. He caught the eye of a particularly delicious looking man below him and winked, smirking to himself as the man's knees seemed to crumble underneath him.

"We're demons," Blaise said, raising an eyebrow as he followed Draco's gaze. "You really should stop pretending that you don't get off on all this attention." He paused, straightening the sleeve of his black suit jacket. "Plus, you look like you could use a good hate fuck or two."

"Do you always have to be so bloody cheerful?" Draco asked, snapping his fingers impatiently to fill his glass with more bourbon as he tore his eyes away from the man.

"Yes," Blaise replied simply. "You should try it sometime. And better make the hate fucks at least three – you're insufferable when you get like this."

Draco snorted. "Trust me," he began, "cheer is morbidly overrated, and so is fucking the brains out of any of these misguided fools. Plus, I'm always insufferable, you know that."

"Well, if you don't do something about _that_ ," Blaise started, gesturing toward the man who was still staring longingly upward, "I'm going to have to go down there and take care of it myself."

"Be my guest," Draco replied, indifferently. "It's been centuries since I've found a man even remotely pleasing in bed."

I wasn't the truth, a good fuck was a good fuck regardless of who it was attached to, but it was always so much more fun this way – making Blaise want the man, then stealing him away at the last second. It was the perfect game.

And Draco adored games. They were the perfect distraction.

Blaise, who had been studying his friend out of the corner of his eye, threw his head back and laughed. "You really need to get out more," he said after recovering, wiping nonexistent tears from his face. "Some of them suck cock like you wouldn't believe."

"You say that like we didn't spend the Middle Ages together screwing everything that moved," Draco retorted, turning around so he could lean back against the railing.

"Touché," Blaise said, raising his glass. "How many Popes did we turn? Five?"

"Seven," Draco quickly corrected, the corner of his mouth turned into another one of his characteristic smirks. "Eight if you count the one that fainted when he caught us fucking his illegitimate daughter in his own bed. Although, technically I think it was the stealing from the poor that really did him in."

"Ahh, yes. How could I possibly forget?" Blaise said, smiling at the memory. "Those were the days."

Draco simply grunted in response. The way things had been going the last couple of decades, he was tempted to agree.

"You know, I could give it a go," Blaise offered, batting his eyelashes as he took a suggestive step forward and reached out to tug at Draco's collar.

"Oh, fuck off," Draco said, shoving him away, his drink sloshing dangerously in his hand. "We tried that once. Didn't work out, remember?"

"Yes, but you had tits then," Blaise replied, unbothered by his friend's rejection. "Imagine what we could do with two cocks instead of one?"

Draco laughed, genuinely for the first time all night, and ran his fingers through his platinum hair. Sometime early in the first century, after a particularly nasty encounter with a horrible excuse for a witch, he was hit with a curse, one that turned out to be particularly difficult to reverse. He spent the better part of three decades stuck in a female form before anyone could figure out how to change him back, and by then, he had grown so used to being a woman that he had almost been tempted to make the change a permanent one.

But then he had remembered his perfect cock.

"Bloody hag," he muttered angrily under his breath at the memory.

"To be fair," Blaise told him, chuckling quietly, "the hag at least knew what she was doing. You were unbelievably attractive as a woman."

And Blaise definitely wasn't wrong.

Draco, who was already used to a certain amount of attention, found that people threw themselves at him significantly more while he was in his more feminine form. So he, being ever the resourceful demon that he was, used his time as a woman to test out the whole fucking thing from a new and rather illuminating perspective. Unfortunately coming, as easy as it had once been for him before being turned, became a frustratingly elusive event, and after years of screwing anything he could get his hands on, he began to wonder if not being able to climax had been the hag's real revenge.

"You're insatiable, I hope you know that," Draco said finally, shaking his head. "And as tempting as your offer is, it's still going to be a firm no. Can't have you storming off again when you can't get me off. That little tantrum took you nearly a century to get over."

When Blaise had offered his services, promising to solve Draco's little problem with a few well-placed thrusts, Draco decided to give his friend a go. Unfortunately, the whole thing had been yet another embarrassing lesson in the complexities of the female orgasm, and although Draco had laughed their failure off, promising they could try it again once he stopped clutching his stomach from laughing so hard, it was too late – Blaise's overly fragile ego had been shattered.

"It was only eighty years," Blaise said, rolling his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic."

"Dramatic is my specialty," Draco reminded him before taking another sip of drink.

Blaise's eighty-year tantrum was the only time in two thousand years that they'd been apart for more than a few weeks, and although Draco would never admit it out loud, he had been unbelievably bored without Blaise by his side. While demons didn't put much weight into familial relations, they were as close as two horrible demented beings could ever be, and Blaise was, for all intents and purposes, the closest thing Draco would ever have to a brother.

"Aww, look at you two fuckers," came a voice from somewhere behind them, and Draco groaned, chugging the rest of his drink before turning around.

And then there was this asshole, who was, to use a comparable familial analogy, the drunk uncle at Thanksgiving dinner who couldn't stop shouting about aliens in Area 51.

"I thought this place was supposed to be idiot free," Draco noted with an air of frigidness.

"Hello to you too, oh exalted one," the man replied, bowing sarcastically as he finally moved out of the shadows.

"Theo," Blaise said happily, quickly conjuring a second drink. "I thought you were busy tonight," he added, holding out the glass.

Theo shrugged, accepting the glass. "Turns out, it doesn't take much time or effort to corrupt an entire political party."

"Which one this time?" Draco asked, although he truly didn't care. They were all the same.

Theo raised his eyebrows as he took a sip of his drink. "Don't you want to be surprised?" he queried, purposely side-stepping the question.

"Honestly, no," Draco scoffed, turning back around, his eyes quickly finding the man he had winked at earlier. "Was just trying to be polite."

"Good to see you still have that stick up your arse," Theo quipped, moving next to the blond to survey the land. "Probably should find someone to fuck that out of you."

Blaise, who had been mid-sip, choked on his drink as he once again found himself guffawing like a buffoon.

"I've been telling him that for years," Blaise managed finally, waving his hand to remove the liquid he had coughed up from the front of his suit. "He's still moaning about the golden girl," he risked before pursing his lips together to keep another snicker from escaping.

Draco didn't even have the energy to glare at either of them; this _was_ the kind of thing he'd come to expect from them after the whole angel debacle. After all, it was own damn fault for telling them anything in the first place.

"And this is precisely why I hate hanging out with you two," he grumbled despite knowing it wouldn't stop either of the other demons from taking more cheap shots. "I'm leaving," he threatened, but all of them knew he wouldn't.

"Hey," Theo began, throwing a hand up in the air, "we're not the ones who fell in love with–"

"I will murder you if you finish that sentence," Draco snapped, his patience with the whole charade running dangerously thin.

Theo chuckled quietly and moved up to the railing. "I'd like to see you try," he goaded as he surveyed the land below. "So, who are we fucking tonight?" he asked after a moment, smartly steering the topic of conversation to safer waters as his eyes scanned the crowd below.

At Theo's words, Blaise noticeably perked up, his abnormally white teeth glowing against his dark skin as he smiled. "Oh, we haven't had an orgy in ages," he said gleefully. "I think Draco already found his contribution."

"We are not–" but Draco never got a chance to finish his thought because at that very moment he caught sight of a familiar head of curly brown hair, and his glass shattered in his hand.

"Oh, shit," he heard Blaise mumble.

"Well," came Theo's voice from somewhere on Draco's left, "she always did have impeccable timing."

Their words barely registered with Draco because this time, after so many false alarms, it really was _her_. It wasn't a dream, it wasn't some mirage; she was here in the flesh, moving briskly toward the stairs that would lead her to him. And with that realization, Draco's mouth went dry.

He wanted to scream, he wanted to rip out his non-beating heart and stomp on it until it was nothing but a mushy pool of blood, and in a strange turn of events that absolutely no one would have seen coming, he wanted to bring that damn witch back from the grave so that she could curse him in some new and horribly demented way. He wasn't supposed to care, he certainly wasn't supposed to be this unnerved at her sudden reappearance, but it was _her_ , and not even the sea of potential witnesses was going to keep him from doing something stupid.

"Careful," Theo warned, watching with amusement from behind his glass. "Someone might think you actually care about her."

Draco hissed. "Shut it," he replied, quickly conjuring a new drink which he immediately downed. She hadn't lifted her head, not once, but there was no way she didn't know he was there; she was far too smart and cunning for that. She was here for him and him alone, and he was shaking, his feet frozen to the ornately tiled floor even though every muscle in his body was screaming at him to turn and run. "I don't fucking care about her," he added angrily. It wasn't true and they all knew it, but he said it anyway.

"Sure you don't," Blaise mused, his eyes flickering between the blond and the unruly haired angel below.

Draco ignored him, choosing instead to swear rapidly under his breath (like that would help).

And then, almost as if she could sense his discomfort, she looked up with her big, beautiful doe-eyes, and Draco knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was completely and utterly fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song - Heartless by The Weeknd.
> 
>  **a/n** : Decided to forgo my holiday one-shot ideas because I was just too excited to get this one started. This idea has been bouncing around in my head for some time, and I'm eager to see what everyone thinks of it! I'll be posting a bit sporadically for the foreseeable future, but I am going to try my best to post at least once a week (no promises for consistency until the new year though).
> 
> The title of each chapter will pull from an applicable song, and I'll list those at the top of the end-chapter notes for those who are interested. See above for this week's song.
> 
> And lastly – for those of you that have read Inheritance, I put a little ode to that story in this Chapter. The battle where Draco meets _her_ is the invasion of the Great Heathen Army (Northmen/Vikings) into Northumbria in ~865 AD. King Ælla was the King of Northumbria at (or around) that time and was, according to Old Norse sources, executed via the blood eagle.


	2. Hurt me so good

It really shouldn't have happened. She never should have allowed herself to become so obsessed. But sometimes, and definitely in this particular case, Hermione was just a bit too curious for her own good.

(And curiosity might actually be the death of this proverbial cat).

To say her obsession began with the act itself wouldn't be the whole truth because the roots of it took hold far before that. In actuality, her predicament started with a symphony of whispers – whispers that were, to put it mildly, referencing the sexual proficiency of an entire class of immortals. And although she tried to ignore them, a myriad of stories still managed to reach her through an inconceivable web of loud-mouthed gossips.

Now, Hermione didn't typically subscribe to the rumor train, nor did she, until that point, hold much of an interest in anything outside of work, but something about the stories piqued her interest, and without really noticing she was doing it, she started to pay attention.

The tales she heard varied both in scope and scale, and most went no further than a bit of harmless foreplay, but some were so wonderfully dirty that they made her cheeks flush in horribly human ways. She wasn't a saint by any definition of the word – angels were far too busy saving humans from themselves to bother with that kind of flawed ranking of souls – but she was certainly more virtuous than most of her kind. The vast majority of her romantic entanglements had been appropriately vanilla and, more importantly, satisfying enough that she never felt the need to look for aide outside of the golden gates within which she resided. But suddenly, almost as if the whispers had carried a sickness she couldn't rid herself of, she found herself wanting more – of what exactly, she didn't yet know.

It was no surprise when the whispers quickly (at least in immortal terms) morphed into something considerably more similar to a cascade of shouts, drowning every nearby angelic being in stories so complex and unbelievable that they just couldn't be false. Angels of all ranks seemed to have something to say about one story or another, and fiery debates seemed to break out whenever any of them had a few unburdened moments to spare. More interesting perhaps considering who they all were was that none of them, not even the ones in charge of keeping them all in line (not even Hermione) had any intention of doing anything to stop it at all.

Before moving on, it's important to point out that while this particular scenario – a workplace devolving into a full-out tizzy over a healthy dose of erotica – may not sound all that out of the ordinary, the beings involved were, quite literally, supposed to be more honorable than that. But, in a kind of irony that should have been far too good to be true, the angels were really no better than their demented below-Earth counterparts.

And oh, did Hermione learn things about her colleagues that could never be unheard.

There was the story about a prolonged imprisonment followed, rather surprisingly considering the red-headed angel it supposedly involved, by an even longer consensual play on power. There was the one that involved a solstice, a few witches, and an impressively large circle of rocks. There were the tales involving the rather odd combination of demons and other creatures, including the one with a dragon and its hoard of gold and another with a group of bearded near-immortal men dressed in, as it had been explained to her, strangely erotic robes. There was even the one involving her best friend and a terrifyingly large snake, which was most definitely a euphuism for something she didn't want to know. There were short-lived dalliances, and there were longer-lived ones, all of which (allegedly) ended in a predictably explosive and entertaining fashion. But what Hermione could never be sure about was which of them were simply the result of overzealous peacocking and which of them, if any (even the ones involving people she knew), were actually the whole uncompromising truth.

But perhaps more importantly, was the fact that none of the stories – not a single beautifully wicked one – contained even the tiniest reference to love.

Of all the things that she heard over the course of a millennia, it was the blatant omission of that particular emotion that was her ultimate undoing. Love, she thought, wasn't just dangerous, it was horribly distracting, and she, the ever-faithful servant that she was, didn't have time for that kind of nonsense. Now, being an angel didn't mean she wasn't plagued with a need to fornicate (translation: she most definitely was), she just didn't want it to get in the way of her more important goals. And so, because she wasn't one to make a rash decision about anything, she deliberated. She weighed her options - made lists to put all other lists to shame. She drove herself to the brink of madness contemplating that ethical implications of what she was considering.

There was just one problem – no one, not even the others who were _alleged_ to have already partaken, had done their due diligence to determine the severity of their consequences if the Old Man upstairs ever decided to put an end to their madness.

And that was enough to keep her from doing the thing she so desperately needed to do – deciding.

Instead, Hermione did what she did best; she researched, scouring every text she could get her hands on and discretely requesting every willing being more ancient than herself to tell her tales of the beginning. And when the results of centuries of work turned up nothing more than a list of cautionary remarks about the dangers of mingling with the other side, she was forced to change tactics. She began to study the devious actions of her contemporaries. It was tedious work, and her time for snooping was significantly more limited than she would have liked it to be – there just weren't enough moments in eternity.

In the end, she was forced to wait, which wasn't exactly the sort of thing she was used to doing. What she needed was some sort of sign, a loophole, anything that would open the door for her, a chronic rule follower, to join in on all of the alleged fun. And when she finally found it a few too many decades later… well, let's just say that the poor soul at the receiving end of her curiosity never stood a fucking chance.

The loophole Hermione had been waiting for, the green light if you will, came after a rather dimwitted angel she was acquainted with came back from a mission gone horribly wrong. The angel in question had almost been discovered when an angry (very predictably human) mob had not only accused her of being a scarlet but also attempted to execute her with fire. Of course, being immortal and all, she couldn't exactly be killed by any kind of weapon a human could wield, and so the angel had done the only thing she could think of: she goaded the mob into a frenzy by pretending to be exactly what they had accused her of hoping it would be enough of a distraction for her to miracle herself away without detection.

It was a risky move, but even Hermione couldn't blame her for playing that card. Wiping memories from human brains was risky and time-consuming, not to mention incredibly dangerous for anyone called in to do the deed, and before an angel was sent down to Earth, they had to pass a series of tests to prove their competency in the art of distraction and disappearing without a trace.

And so, this particular angel should have known better than to miss what happened next.

Unfortunately, she did not. In fact, the angel took her distracting about a few million leagues too far, and because that mistake hadn't been idiotic enough, she (who had undoubtedly been too pleased with herself to notice what was happening) completely overlooked the tell-tale shift in the crowd. It wasn't until the uproar magnified to proportions not seen on Earth for hundreds of years that she realized she had gone too far, but it was far too late to do anything about it. The emotions emanating from the crowd coalesced and erupted, sending a shockwave out into the surrounding land.

It wasn't long before dark forms began to emerge from the shadows, and the angel, who was overwhelmed by the sudden turn in events, panicked (eye roll) and froze (more dramatic eye roll), unable to conjure the power necessary to send the twisted beings back to where they had come from. Instead, she watched horrified as the new arrivals closed in on the crowd, making it just within grabbing distance of the first few poor angry souls.

But in some sick kind of non-miracle, a demon appeared in front of her mere moments before she would have been forced to watch the whole horrific scene unfold. No doubt, the demon had been drawn out by the scent of malcontent and trouble, and if you believed the tale, he hesitated only long enough to flash her a playful smirk before whisking her away from the chaos, not even bothering to disguise their sudden disappearance nor lifting a finger to help a single pour soul in need.

The angel was so caught up in the romance (yes, another eye roll) of it all that she proceeded to, in no uncertain terms, show her thanks by fellatio-ing her supposed savior in the middle of a muddy field. Fortunately (or unfortunately if you're a sick, twisted soul), before it could get any further than a heavenly blowjob, they were interrupted by reinforcements that had been sent from both sides to deal with the rapidly devolving situation.

Naturally, both sides tried to suppress news of the whole debacle – the incident wasn't great for either of their brands – but word of the dalliance still spread like wildfire, and by the time the angel was once again safe behind the golden gates, everyone in Heaven knew. The whole thing turned out to be quite the scandal, but what had been most interesting was that, in the end, the angel hadn't been punished for any of it. Apparently, anything was fair game, even something as ridiculous as putting your enemy's cock in your mouth instead of doing one actual thing that was in your job description, when the secret of Heaven's presence on Earth was threatened.

And even though the entire thing horrified her, the loophole this particular incident exposed was exactly what Hermione had been waiting for.

Finding the right dangerously demonic being in just the right set of circumstances, however, took a tad bit longer.

Interacting with demons was one of the more normal parts of her job, but it wasn't until she found herself in fighting against an impressively barbaric group of humans that she found anyone worthy enough for the kind of entanglement she was hoping for. A demon fought with the opposing side, as was often the case when an angel was asked to lend their services to a mortal war, only this demon drew her in like none of his kind ever had before. More specifically, she sensed him before she actually saw him, and knowing he was there but not knowing where he was exactly was enough to thoroughly distract her from her task. She found him eventually, of course, but it took far longer than it should have. In fact, he blended in so well with the the opposing side that if she hadn't caught the inhumanely graceful movements that he made with his sword she would have missed him entirely.

Thankfully she did not because he – all six plus beautifully pale feet of him – was really quite something to behold.

He was donning a rather impressive human form. His shoulders were broader than they had any right to be and his arms – oh, his arms – looked as if they had been carved straight out of a perfect block of marble. And yet, despite looking like he could take out a full grown elephant, he moved with the grace of someone with a lot less mass to them, moving so effortlessly it was as if his body weighed nothing at all.

He was shirtless, having like many of the other Northmen tossed his chainmail aside, and his chest was riddled with scars which only heightened his allure. Everything about him was oddly beautiful, statuesque almost; even his damn hair, which was stained with blood and pulled back into some sort of braid, seemed to exude a sort of brilliance that lured her in.

Hermione watched him for few ragged breaths, ignoring her own place in the gruesome battle before snapping out of it long enough to grab hold of a riderless horse that suddenly came charging toward her. And somehow, despite not being able to tear her eyes away from him, she managed to climb onto the horse back and resume fighting from a new and illuminating position.

For a demon, he certainly didn't play the game like she expected him to. Yes, he killed ruthlessly, but it was war after all, and unlike the other demons she'd had the misfortune of interacting with, his kills appeared to be driven less by an inherent madness and more by the necessity of the battle in front of him. He never chased anyone down, he didn't taunt or prolong someone's suffering which made absolutely no sense for someone designed to do exactly those things. Instead, he simply plunged his blade directly into his opponent's heart and moved on to the next foe.

It was art or magic or really whatever word one used to describe something exceptionally exquisite, and when she caught him looking at her with a hungry look in his eyes, it was all over.

He may have been in control of himself before, but he spectacularly lost control of himself when he finally charged toward her, and Hermione, who was doing everything she could to not fall off the horse she was clinging to, was so caught up in the moment herself that the number of mutilated bodies he left in the wake hadn't even mattered.

_"You should take your Northmen home," she had told him after sliding off the horse. She wiped at her mouth, hoping (praying, really) that he couldn't see the tremble in her hands._

_"And why the fuck would I do that?" he replied, nearly boring a hole into her with his stormy gray eyes. "We're winning." And then he cocked his head and lifted his bloodied hands, and she was suddenly overcome with the desire to both punch him in the face and rip what remained of his decrepit clothing off._

_He was right, and she knew it,_ _and it infuriated her beyond belief, but it didn't change how incredibly turned on she was standing so close to him. It certainly wouldn't be the last time she accepted an assignment to fight for a so obviously ill-fated king just for another chance to see him in action._

_Hermione looked around and narrowed her eyes, but it was all for show – she had finally found someone worthy of the loophole, and she wasn't going to waste it. "For now," she told him as she tossed her sword at his feet, not taking her eyes off of him as she surrendered. "For now."_

What followed were a series of events that even she couldn't have planned better herself. The blond tackled her to the ground, albeit only after one of the other Northmen made a move to do it himself, threw her in a set of iron chains even an infant angel could have found their way out of, and then proceeded to watch her as he lurked nearby. It was almost too much, watching how her presence unraveled him so quickly, and it took every ounce of her self-control to not break out into uncontrollable laughter as she sat in the mud with the other hostages.

He wanted her just as much as she wanted him, and for some reason that was the most unbelievable thing she'd learned in her entire existence.

His subsequent flashy 'rescue' had been more predictable than the entire war itself, and when she was finally in his arms, she didn't even bother to explain her intentions before transporting them to the nearest unoccupied bed and shoving him onto it.

The sex was punishing and hard and anything but sweet, and it was exactly what she had needed – exactly what she had been searching for all these long years.

Still, it was never supposed to be anything other than the one time. It should have been just one well-planned mistake, one single alleged momentary lapse in judgement (and brains). After that, she was supposed to forget about it, to walk away and pretend that it had never happened. There definitely shouldn't have been a repeat, nor should there have been hundreds of annoyingly delightful encores after that. She definitely shouldn't have felt anything because feeling things for someone else, especially when that someone else was your sworn enemy, was just so tragically human. She had just wanted to figure out why everyone had been so obsessed – why _she_ had been so obsessed – but in the process it seemed she had tangoed with the wrong fucking demon, and things had gone horribly wrong.

So yes, she _should_ have left it at the one time. Everything _should_ have happened differently, but it didn't, and Hermione had absolutely no delusions about what she'd done.

And while it was far too late to change any of it, she could at least never (ever) let it happen again.

Her only saving grace was that the whole horrid affair had been grossly out of character for her, so much so that no one, not even the Old Man himself, would expect this kind of betrayal from her. She was Heaven's golden girl, an exemplary student of the light, and until the whole 'should have just been one time' incident, she hadn't stepped a single toe out of line. Where there was wrong, she fought it. Where there was evil, she did everything she could to vanquish it. And as far as anyone was concerned, she was a perfect example of what an angel should be - pure of intention and heart.

But even the perfect ones stumble, and she certainly stumbled… _hard_.

Perhaps one of the more remarkable things about Hermione was that where others might try to lie and maneuver their way out of taking responsibility for their mistakes, she wouldn't hesitate to come clean if she was ever confronted with the truth – not even when it came to this. There wasn't a dishonest bone in her body – although technically speaking, the bones were less her and more an odd collection of matter meant to conceal her natural form – and so her capacity for mistruths ended firmly with lies of omission. You see, she wasn't just an angel in title, she was the very definition of angelic, and there wasn't a single situation in which she'd gamble her own integrity for the sake of avoiding due punishment.

But brutal honesty wasn't the only facet of her personality. She was brilliant, caring, and kind, taking assignments that none of the others would and tackling them with a kind of impassioned fury no angelic creature should be capable of possessing. She was stubborn, famously and unforgivably so, and nearly always right (and not just in her own mind). She liked rules, and she didn't question the status quo; she certainly didn't like to subvert anything ordained to be forbidden. Unfortunately for her, the behavioral boundaries in Heaven were not quite as clear as she would have liked them to be, and so more often than not, she drew those lines herself, silently judging anyone who unknowingly didn't abide by them.

Of course, none of that could erase what she had done, and at best, her good deeds were now completely offset by all the misdeeds she had turned a blind eye to for just one more taste. Even more alarming was the worst-case scenario, which was the possibility that her ledger was now so filled with losses that they could be counted as wins for the other side, and if she was someone who actually needed sleep, the threat of that alone should have been enough to keep her up at night.

But it wasn't.

Truthfully, the irony of the whole debacle wasn't even in the act, correction, _acts_ themselves – she wasn't the first angel to find herself tangled up with a demon, that much had already been blatantly established, and she definitely wouldn't be the last – nor was the irony in the fact that everything that made her _her_ had been the thing that pushed her closer to the very thing that could very likely destroy her. The irony, the real shocker of her predicament, was that, even though she knew what would happen to her if someone found out just how truly compromised she was from the torrid love affair, she had never even really cared.

And she still didn't – not really. Hermione had wanted _him_ from the moment she first saw him, and despite everything that had happened since, she still wanted him now.

Running away and leaving him the way that she did had probably been the smartest thing she had done in centuries. An angel couldn't be with a demon, it certainly couldn't love one, and the rational part of her brain had been screaming at her for decades to end it once and for all. Still, even after all these years, a day didn't go by that she didn't think about him, that she didn't daydream about his annoyingly handsome scowl or imagine her fingers in his irritatingly perfect hair.

It was madness – there just wasn't any other explanation.

She had mulled over countless theories, referenced every romantic novel probably ever written, and she had come up with absolutely nothing to explain her current predicament. And sure, maybe opposites really did attract, and yes, he was certainly hers, but that wasn't really it – at least it wasn't all of it.

She should have loathed him, should have done anything but submit to her misfiring hormones at the end of that blasted battle against the Northmen, but she couldn't have avoided him that day even if she tried – especially not after he looked at her the way that he did and definitely not after he whispered wonderfully barbaric things in her ear as he tore off her chains.

Undoubtedly, she had been doomed from the start, and she fell into his arms so easily and repeatedly over the course of a thousand years that she couldn't help but question her own sanity. Despite everything that he was, despite every horribly demented thing that he had done and had yet to do, she couldn't hate him and never would. Somehow, and lord knew how, he was the wretched half of her beautifully angelic soul, the voice in the back of her head that she so desperately needed, urging her to her to just – _for fucking once_ – let go. She did her job, and he did his, but when they were together, when they were finally done fighting whatever battle had been tossed into their laps from their respective sides, they were a strangely perfect one.

And when she was with him, Hermione felt more alive than she ever had.

Which was ridiculous, of course – she was an immortal angel, fated to serve a purpose higher than herself for an endless eternity. Life wasn't a gift she'd been granted nor was it something she could ever have. And _he_ was just a demon, similarly shackled to the construct of his own eternity. There was no _they_ – there just couldn't be.

So, in the end she ran not because she was scared about how she felt about him but because, no matter what her heart wanted, there was simply no way around the bounds of their existence. They were never and could never be anything more than a pair of eternally doomed star-crossed lovers.

Which really made Ron's idiotic blunder and her respective role in the clean up that much more infuriating.

"Harry," Hermione forced out between her tightly clenched teeth, "I've told you at least a hundred times. I will not, under any circumstances, go anywhere near _him_ ever again."

Harry, who was seated in a couch on the other side of the room, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, sighed. "Hermione, we need someone on the inside. He's the only–"

"Don't you dare try that with me," Hermione interrupted, throwing her hands to her hips. "You know one too." She paused, spinning on her feet to face the red-headed angel still standing timidly in the corner. "You both do," she added angrily.

"Know isn't really–"

"Ronald, so help me God!" she shouted, throwing her hands in the air. "I will divest you of your precious jewels if you even attempt to finish that thought."

Ron shrank back slightly, cringing, but nodded.

"This is your fault, not mine," she continued, not even pausing to take a breath. "You had one job, Ronald. ONE. JOB."

"I know, I know," Ron said, hanging his head. "I'm sorry, okay? You know I didn't mean to."

Harry snorted. "That's a bit beside the point now, innit?"

"You too?" Ron groaned, throwing his hands up to his face. "I knew Hermione would be mad, but I thought you would at least have my back."

"After doing something this incredibly stupid?" Harry said, raising his eyebrows. "Sorry, mate. Really can't help you there."

"You know, neither of you are making me feel any better about this," Ron mumbled, dropping into the nearest chair.

"What? Did you want us to hold your hand and tell you everything would be alright?" Hermione asked, already exacerbated with the entire situation. "Honestly, how could you be so–"

"It could have happened to anyone," Ron tried again, looking at her with his signature puppy dog eyes. "I was only gone for a minute…"

"What kind of half-assed excuse is that?" Hermione snapped, wishing she could smack the dumb look off his face. "You shouldn't have been away from your post at all. You know how important it was that no one touch them let alone remove them and take them God knows where."

"I was hungry – someone was yelling about scones in the break room – I just wasn't thinking."

"Well, that's the understatement of your entire existence," Harry mumbled, pressing his fingers into his temples.

"Oh, come on," Ron whined, looking wildly between his two friends. "It probably would have happened no matter who was on guard."

Hermione stared at him for a moment in disbelief, and then shrieked, throwing her hands in the air. "Harry, I can't," she began as she threw her body onto the couch next to her raven-haired friend. "I can't deal with him anymore."

Harry sighed again and pushed himself off the couch. "I hope you realize how incredibly tempting it is to just turn you in and wipe our hands of this," he told Ron quietly, not taking his eyes off him as he walked toward his friend.

Ron's eyes widened and he half swallowed, half chocked, the sound of which was audible even to Hermione from her position on the couch.

"But for obvious reasons – you know, friends forever and whatnot," Harry continued as he now hovered over Ron, "we're going to help you."

Ron glanced at Hermione who after exhaling quickly, offered him a brisk nod of support.

"Thank you," he squeaked out.

"But seeing as you can't be trusted around shiny objects, we're going to need some help," Harry said. "Your sister–"

Ron's head snapped back. "No – no we can't tell her. Please," he pleaded, interrupting before Harry had a chance to finish. "Anyone else, please."

Harry simply looked at Ron with an unapologetic smirk on his face.

"Bollocks, you already told her, didn't you?" Ron asked, the color quickly draining from his face.

Harry smiled broadly and nodded. "I sent her a message as soon as you left to find Hermione. She should–"

With impeccable timing (as was her thing), the door to the room flew open, and a beautiful redhead with legs for days walked into the room, pausing only to kick the door shut behind her, and Hermione chuckled as she saw Ron bury himself even deeper in his chair.

"Where is he!?" the angel demanded, her head swiveling around the room. It only took her a moment to locate Ron, and when she did, she leapt across the room and smacked him in the back of the head, the resulting sound echoing off the walls. "Bloody idiot," she muttered as she took a step back.

"Ginny," Harry said, tipping his head toward the newcomer in welcome.

"Harry. Hermione," Ginny said in reply, purposely not offering the same greeting to the only other remaining angel in the room. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she asked Ron after a moment, crossing her arms and tapping a booted foot impatiently.

"You want a list?" Hermione muttered under her breath to which Ginny threw her head back and laughed.

"It was an accident, okay?" Ron began, his face turning an even deeper shade of red.

"An accident is knocking over a fragile object, Ronald," Ginny said, the annoyance obvious in her voice. "This – I don't even know what to call this," she said gesturing to the empty display cases situated near the center of the room.

Ron, rather smartly this time, chose to keep his mouth shut.

"What do we know?" Ginny asked, turning to look between Harry and Hermione.

"Not much," Harry shrugged, snapping his fingers to conjure seven brass colored balls, each one morphing quickly into the exact shape and size of the object they were meant to imitate "He was the only one on guard. He left for a few minutes, and when he came back, they were gone," he summarized, before turning his back to being placing each newly conjured fake in its respective case.

"Merlin," Ginny whispered, waving a hand to help Harry levitate the objects into place. "Do we think it was… _them_?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Of course, it was _them_ ," she said, crossing one leg over the other. "Who else could have managed something like this?"

"Fucking, demons," Ginny hissed, shaking her head.

"Which is exactly why Hermione needs to find hers and talk to him – see if he knows anything about this," Harry said, turning around and gesturing behind his head. "I haven't seen mine in 500 years – not since..." he stopped, cringing slightly at whatever memory crossed his mind as he said the words. "He's out of the question," he clarified.

"And you think I'll have better luck with _mine_?" Hermione asked in disbelief. "Seriously, did someone drop you on your abnormally large head?"

Harry frowned at her. "My head is perfectly sized," he told her, bringing a hand to back of his head. "And to answer your question, no. _Your_ demon is our best bet, and you know it."

"He is not mine," Hermione seethed, clenching her fists into tiny balls at her sides.

Ginny laughed again and flipped the tresses of her long red hair over a shoulder. "Oh, I really have missed this," she noted, clearly amused despite the seriousness of the entire situation. "American politicians can only keep one entertained for so long." She paused, looking down to examine her fingernails. "Harry has a point though," she added after a few moments, "about your demon."

"He won't talk to me," Hermione said, her voice almost a whisper. "Trust me. Honestly, knowing him, he did this just to spite me."

"You won't know until you try," Ron, rather bravely for someone who had caused this whole debacle, offered up.

"Oh, don't think I've forgotten about your little dance with Hell," Harry said, stepping in front of Hermione and grabbing her by the shoulders before she could launch herself at Ron. "You're going to find yours too," he instructed as he tried to keep Hermione's flailing limbs from smacking him in the face.

A look of terror crossed Ron's face, and not even Hermione, who was in the middle of a rather futile retaliation, could pretend that his hilariously visceral response wasn't amusing. "N-nno," he sputtered, looking rapidly between the other three angels. "She'll kill me. She'll fucking kill me."

"Saves us a murder, don't you think?" Harry mused, turning to wink at Hermione who had, at least for the moment, ceased her attempted attack to laugh.

"If I had known you had it in you to be this devious, I would have never ended things," Ginny remarked, eyeing Harry with a sudden wave of admiration.

"I'm leaving," Hermione announced suddenly, rolling her eyes as the duo that was once Heaven's golden couple stared at each other with mirrored curious expressions on their faces.

"Do try not to fall into his bed this time," Harry told her, tearing his eyes away from Ginny long each to shoot her a teasing glance.

In response, Hermione shot him a murderous glare along with matching set of middle fingers before closing her eyes and transporting herself quickly out of the room.

 _Fuck_ , she thought as her feet landed on familiar ground. _They're going to owe me so much overtime after this._

Of course, she knew where to find _him_ – she always did – because how in the world was she supposed to avoid him otherwise, and considering the severity of the situation at hand, she had decided it was a waste of time to pretend otherwise. There wasn't time to for games, there wasn't time for cowardice, there wasn't really time for anything at all considering what was missing, and whether she wanted to or not, she was going to have to face the very demon who had been haunting every single one of her thoughts and demand some answers.

With a wave of her hand, she swapped her clothes for something a bit more appropriate. Her white and gold gown darkened and shrank, transforming into a short (very short) dark blue dress. Her sandals morphed into a pair of jaw-dropping stilettos, and her hair… well, her hair was her hair and she didn't even bother with that. She waved her hand again, and her big, brown eyes were suddenly made a bit more mysterious with a bold but tasteful smokey eye, and her lips were tinted with a subtle hint of red. It was all incredibly unnecessary; she could have simply garbed herself in jeans and a ratty t-shirt – he certainly would hate her the same no matter what she was wearing – but she did it anyway.

At least now she'd blend in, she thought as she dropped her disillusionment shield and walked out onto the busy street.

The place she was heading wasn't far, but it was far enough that she couldn't avoid the crowds of inebriated people in the middle of whatever late-night revelry they'd deemed appropriate for the night. She really didn't understand people's desire to gather in crowds, nor did she understand their eagerness to wait in line for something that was, in her eyes, not at all worth the hype. Then again, humans were far too often drawn to the very things that could destroy them, and this (her target) – the horrible, demon-infested nightclub that they were all undoubtedly congregating for – was a perfect example.

Ignoring the disgruntled murmurs of the people queuing, she sashayed her way up to the front of the line, throwing her hips side to side as if she was some irresistible provocateur. She stopped in front of the two bouncers guarding the horribly gaudy red velvet door and smiled sweetly, flashing them them her best _pretty please_ face while ever so slightly moving her finger to bend them (only momentarily) to her will. The men studied her oddly before the magic took hold, but when it did, their confused looks were replaced with admiration, and the larger of the two, who was rather obviously more overcome with the fantasy she had fed them, stepped aside and ushered her past the black ropes.

 _Men_ , she thought, shaking her head as she walked through the first section of the overly elaborate entrance. _They're all the same._

Once she was safely out of sight, she paused under a set of near dizzying lights, taking a few deep, calming breaths as she tried to force up the mental walls that would allow her to get through the next few minutes without doing something abhorrently stupid. And for a split second, she really did feel brave enough to do what she needed to do, it's just that, when she finally flounced the rest of the way into the intrepid nightclub, strutting past another set of bouncers as if it was her damn job, she wasn't as prepared as she hoped she'd be.

The place was packed and obnoxiously loud, but the craziness surrounding her did nothing to quell her nerves. Her breathe hitched as she moved into the crowd, but she pushed her way across the dance floor anyways, knowing it was a minor miracle that her feet were still working. He undoubtedly would have spotted her from his perch by now, but she kept her eyes fixed on the mass of bodies in front of her because she couldn't look at him – not yet.

By the time she reached the center of the dance floor, she could feel his eyes burning a hole in the top of her head, could almost hear the anger and surprise emanating from depths of his very soul, and she paused, suddenly incapable of going any further. Even despite every single one of her brain cells screaming at her to keep moving, she couldn't – every remaining ounce of bravery left her body in a single exhale, and she was overcome with needs she couldn't control. She needed to be next to him. She needed to feel him… to taste him.

And then, because there was really nothing left to do but give in, she looked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song – Do Me by Kim Petras
> 
> a/n: Once a week postings may have been a bit too ambitious for someone who is in the middle of a breakup and just starting a new job, so sporadic is apparently the name of the game for now. I do hope you all enjoyed a bit more of Hermione in this one – she was much harder to write for some reason (and I'm just going to go ahead and completely ignore the deeper meaning behind that).
> 
> (Just kidding… it's because I have an icy black heart).


	3. Misery loves company

Harry had a secret.

Incidentally, his secret also had a secret, and so by the very simple rules of association, Harry actually had two secrets, although he would never cop to either of them.

And they were, in no uncertain terms, a bit of a doozy.

It all started when he fell in love with a human – and not just any human. He fell in love with the most arrogant, magisterial, and annoyingly brazen idiot of the whole bunch, and there had been absolutely nothing he could have done to stop it.

He fell, and because of what followed, it was a tumble that trumped all others.

In the beginning, it was nothing. They weren't anything other than a couple of souls forced into the same sphere by the inescapability of fate. They were strangers, as was to be expected considering their dramatically different types of existence, and their paths crossed only as a consequence of their respective circumstances. The man was nothing more than a pawn in the game Harry played, one small cog in the wheel of yet another Hell-fueled war on Earth, but then, and Harry wasn't entirely sure when or how, it became something – _he_ became something, and that's where things started to go terribly wrong.

Harry had never met someone so conceited, someone so inexplicably unaffected by the suffering around him, and being around the man was more maddening than anything Harry had ever experienced before. But he also had never been so drawn to another being – _any being_ – and it would come as a surprise to no one that knew him that Harry's feelings, if he had ever felt the courage to tell anyone about them, grew from the kind of fascination that could only blossom from hatred.

Theoretically speaking, angels weren't supposed to bend or break (or bleed, if we're getting morbidly specific), but instead of subverting the inconvenient side effects of carrying a human form as was normal for someone in his position, Harry embraced them – especially the ones that made him feel something other than the lethargic indifference that seemed to plague every moment of his existence. Hate, it turns out, was just the easiest way to get there, and so he hated, loathing everything that was even remotely wrong with the mortal world with every ounce of his angelic being.

It was only fitting then that their first real encounter ended not in tangled sheets but with two pairs of bloody fists out in the mud, each of them sporting a near matching set of split lips and swollen eyes after their shouting match over God-knows-what escalated to something a bit larger than a few ruined cups of mead. Their second encounter wasn't much better, and Harry had admittedly taken the violence a step too far before realizing that it would take a bloody miracle to bring the man back from the brink of death.

And miracle the man back he did – over and over… and over.

The disturbing brutality of Harry's obsession with the man would have been ironic if angels really were as angelic as humans always thought them to be, but they weren't, and Harry undoubtedly toed the line of permissibility more than most. His fists had won wars and lost them (rather spectacularly in more instance than one), and the only thing he knew for sure was that this fight, however small in comparison, would end in a gloriously bloody mess the same as the others.

Truthfully, he fought the man not because of some higher power or greater good, as one might expect of someone of his Heavenly stature, but because his gut told him it was the right thing to. And it was – it really, really was; it's just that Harry grossly misunderstood what _right_ actually meant.

He lost count of how many times they ended up in the same combative positions, and even their audience, who had initially done nothing but add fuel to the fire, grew tired of their charade after a while. It wasn't until some years after their first encounter that Harry felt the shift, and by then, they were both so lost in whatever it was they were feeling that there was absolutely no hope of recovering.

It seemed to happen overnight. One day, they were both going for blood, and the next, they weren't, and Harry, enraged by the realization that their hate had grown into something totally unrecognizable, had wound up and knocked the man out one last time with a final punishing blow. But instead of leaving, instead of tossing the man into some muddy hole to sleep it off with the animals like he had done so many times before, Harry stayed, studying the man's unconscious body with a level of curiosity that would kill more than just one cat.

The first thing that Harry learned that night was that sleep, even the kind of un-consenting slumber the man was currently wrought with, was the ultimate truth serum. The man didn't just look different, he _felt_ different, his body exuding a calm that Harry couldn't quite rectify with what the person he had come to know. It was almost poetic that someone who reveled so much in violence could only find peace in one of its consequences, and on a level that he wasn't quite sure he wanted to admit was there, Harry could relate. And naturally, he was curious, so he stayed.

Which was, in retrospect, a bit of a mistake.

He watched the steady movement of the unconscious man's chest for what seemed like hours. He studied the unmistakable flutter of the human heart underneath with equal parts fascination and disbelief. And then quite suddenly, more quickly than the shift itself, Harry learned perhaps the most important lesson of his entire endless existence – his troubled soul, and yes it was troubled, wasn't as alone as he always thought it would be.

It just so happened that the matching piece was attached to something far less impervious to the effects of time.

Humans were fragile and confounding and horribly self-destructive, but they were also, by their very definition, everything that immortals were not. They loved as fiercely as they hated. They bickered and fought over the most meaningless of things. They cared and they didn't, and they did both at the same time. They were the greatest enigmas of a vast, incomprehensible universe, a curious accident, and they were to be protected at all costs.

Especially, and as long as it was up to Harry, this particular one.

The man was a walking contradiction. He was perfectly imperfect, projecting levels of immaturity and wisdom that had no business existing in the same person. He was a mess, a disaster of epic proportions, and yet he was calculated, executing tasks with flawless precision. He was beautiful in the kind of way only man well-versed in battle could be – worn but grand, scarred and not. He was a hard mass of corded muscles and long limbs with odd, unnatural angles that both confused people and drew them in. The lines in his face told a complicated story – one that was the culmination of side-splitting comedy and heart-wrenching tragedy. And then there was his mouth – his fucking glorious mouth – which never stopped moving but would (and did, it turned out) look absolutely breathtaking when silenced by a mouthful of cock.

And Harry couldn't help himself.

He had never been quite so attracted to a human before. And sure, he had thought about others, fantasized about them even, but it always just felt more convenient to return to the formidable red-headed angel he had spent most of his existence loving. They _knew_ each other – knew each other's moods, knew each other's bodies so well that there was never any hesitation in bed. But she had ended things years ago, giving him the whole 'it's not you, it's me' speech even though they both knew she was simply doing him a kindness that he probably didn't deserve.

Because for everything that Harry was – and he was a lot of things – he wasn't into anything Heaven had to offer and ignoring that little detail for the sake of convenience turned him into the one thing he hated above all others: a liar.

But even after the split, after years of self-inflicted punishment and isolation, Harry hadn't managed to cuff a single soul. More accurately, he had never even given himself the freedom to try – simply put, he had never really had a reason to.

Until this whole shitshow.

There was no doubt that this thing with this particular human felt different, just felt (dare he say it) like a perfect twist in fate. And it was almost laughable that all it had taken for him to finally comprehend what had been happening between the two of them was for him to actually pay attention.

For once, Harry didn't question how he had ended up where he did. Fate had already done the heavy lifting, and now, the only thing that was left to do was to run headfirst willingly into the fire.

And run into it he did… repeatedly.

Of course, the most obvious problem with this particular story is the fact that angels weren't actually supposed to fall in love with the humans that they tasked with spending an eternity protecting – at least not the kind of love Harry found himself inconveniently inflicted with. They certainly weren't supposed to let slip the truth of their existence in the middle of a supremely glorious orgasm, and that was where things really started to get a bit perilous.

But it gets worse, far worse than discovering that a single ungodly blowjob was a far more effective way of getting information out of someone than any kind of morbid torture device, and Harry had been running from the consequences of _that_ for nearly 500 years.

At first, the man had thought Harry was kidding. That the garbled confession that had come out of Harry's mouth was nothing but a part of some sick fantasy of his, but when Harry finally opened his eyes, there was no hiding the truth. The man knew; he _knew_ what Harry really was, believed it more passionately than he had ever believed anything before, and there was simply no coming back from that.

It would have been so much easier if things had just ended there.

And for Harry, they did – he left the next morning, distraught and filled with regret but with no intention of returning. You see, he had a crossed a line that was never meant to be crossed, and he knew it, and he'd be damned if he didn't rectify the situation even though the rectifying quite literally tore him apart. But if there was ever something that he should have done differently it would have been leaving without giving the man the simple curtesy of wiping his very angelic existence from the man's mind.

Because the man certainly never forgot.

He spent his entire, impressively vast fortune trying to hunt Harry down, following fruitless lead after fruitless lead, hoping someone somewhere knew something. Harry, being blessed with powers the man was not, always remained one step ahead, just far enough out of reach to drive the man crazy. And when the man's search predictably ended in destitute disaster, he did the only thing he could think of, he ended his mortal life while calling out for the only immortal being that might actually answer before he succumbed to the long, dark night.

Fortunately, the Devil wasn't just listening, he was recruiting, and he sent his favorite demonic duo to propose a non-refundable transaction. The proposal, the one-time offer as it were, was the gift of eternity in exchange for the only thing the man had left to give – his beautifully human soul. And the man didn't even hesitate. He handed it over willingly, knowing that a soulless eternity was better than a mortal life without the only thing that had ever really mattered to him by his side.

But here's the thing – fate isn't just fickle, she's a cold-hearted bitch, and neither Harry nor the man, what was left of him that was, were immune to her horribly demented, sick sense of humor.

In the end, Harry's secret wasn't that he fell in love with a human. It wasn't even that he never stopped loving the man, not even when Hermione came back from a failed mission moaning about the aggravating dark-haired, gangly demon that had bested her, not even after he hunted the same demon down to confirm with overt terror what she had told him. No, his secret was much darker than that – so dark, that if anyone discovered what it really was, they would know that the worst kinds of deception came not from the enemy but from within.

His secret, the thing that would haunt him for the rest of eternity was that, in the case of the man and his eternally doomed soul, Harry was more culpable for the horrors that followed than the Devil himself.

And as for the man who loved then lost then willfully turned himself into one of Hell's best weapons – let's just say that his secret, rather fittingly considering who was involved, would turn out to be far, far worse than that.

* * *

Draco wasn't ready.

He thought he'd at least have a couple centuries to fuck her out of his system before she just… showed up, looking so irresistibly edible that he had to actively fight the part of his brain that was urging him to just throw her up against the wall. He'd imagined this all differently – that he'd be the one doing the surprising, that he'd actually be in control of his emotions – fuck, that he wouldn't be so damn scared.

But she was here, and she'd already seen him, and running now would just be so…

Actually, why the hell wasn't he running? He used to be so good at that.

He could hear the clatter of her heels as she ascended the stairs, could almost taste the scent of her as she drew closer, but there was still time. He still had a few milliseconds to escape and leave Blaise and Theo to deal with whatever it was she wanted. He could do it – should do it.

But he didn't.

Instead, he stood there like the lovestruck fool that he was, too afraid to do anything but stare at the empty space she'd be filling in a few, short moments.

The steps grew louder, and _fuck._

He needed something stronger than a drink – an inhumanely large dose of horse tranquilizer perhaps – something, anything really that could send him on such a trip that he'd never believe this memory of her.

She was – _FUCK._

The first thing he saw was the top of that god-awful hair, but it wasn't really awful, and – _double fuck_ – he wanted nothing more than to bury his hands deep in those perfect curls. The second thing he saw were her legs – the same legs she used to wrap around his waist to pull him closer when she was eager to get him inside her – and if he hadn't already managed to shatter the glass in his hands, it would have exploded spectacularly at the mere reminder of what her naked body looked like when it was intertwined with his own.

_Fucking fuckity FUCK._

And then, rather stupidly, Draco let his gaze travel upward again and, well… he really should have run when he had the chance.

She was as formidable as he remembered, more so, if it was even possible, considering that she had just flounced into a literal snake's pit with nothing but an entirely too small piece of sparkly cloth to protect her, and he didn't even try to hide his disdain with the whole charade. Because while he had been forced to stand there like a helpless idiot, she had successfully unraveled him without even lifting a single fucking finger, and dealing with that in any sort of healthy and helpful way was lightyears outside of his pay grade.

He hated her, and he loved her, and he really, really should have run when he had the chance.

Hermione hesitated on the top stair, and they locked eyes for the second time that night, only this time they were closer – _too fucking close_ – and all he could do was stare back, clenching his fists until his arms started to shake from the strain.

He couldn't break first, wouldn't, and thankfully in the end, he didn't.

"Draco."

It was just his name, but on her tongue, it was literally ecstasy, and oh, what he wouldn't do to hear it again.

"Please," she whispered when he didn't respond.

And although it wasn't his name, the word really was the next best thing, and it was a minor miracle that he didn't end up unconscious on the floor.

Her voice was so quiet, so timid and unsure, and Draco felt like laughing because it was just so unlike her. But then she took a step toward him and he blanched because he had totally miscalculated. He didn't know how to react, didn't know how to be so close to her again, and before his body could betray his inability to deal with whole damn situation, he swallowed the animalistic growl that been building at the back of his throat.

She took another step, her eyes searching for something, acting as if she could still read him like a damn book.

_And how dare she be so calm?_

But she most certainly dared, and he responded the only way he knew how, with a glare so icy that it could have cut through the very floor beneath their feet.

"Draco," she repeated, a bit louder and more in control of herself this time.

It wasn't quite a sexy this time, wasn't quite as alluring, but it still affected him in ways he hadn't been prepared for. But then he saw a hint of a smile on her face, and it sent him into a rather predictable tizzy.

"What the fuck do you want?" Draco replied tersely, finally acknowledging her presence with words of his own.

He saw her cringe and nearly apologized for it before remembering that it was _her_ that had left him, that she was the one who had spent the last fifty years pretending like he didn't exist, that he was a fucking demon not some lovesick puppy dog, and he got angry all over again.

And this time, he growled and didn't care who heard it.

Hermione dropped her head and exhaled slowly while she fidgeted with the edge of her dress.

"This was a mistake," she muttered under her breath.

 _Of course, it was_ , he wanted to shout but didn't because he couldn't find it in him to actually be that much of a bastard.

And then he followed her gaze to her feet, and _fuck…_ he almost moaned – fucking moaned – as an image of her spread-eagle on a bed wearing nothing but those sinful heals flashed behind his eyes.

_Just shoot me. Someone, just please fucking shoot me._

No one could hear him, and a lead bullet certainly wouldn't do anything but cause him temporary pain, but humans were always so sure that they could manifest anything simply by projecting their wants into the universe, and he thought now was as good a time as any to give the whole projecting into the void thing a fucking shot.

And rather fittingly for a being as desperate as he was, nothing happened.

Draco crossed his arms over his chest because it was the only thing that he could confidently do that wouldn't immediately give away his discomfort (and ill-timed arousal), and he waited, purposely twisting his lips into a hateful scowl. She sighed and lifted her head, and he caught the flash of hurt in her eyes before she matched his icy glare with one of her own.

_Check..._

Their standoff continued, and with each passing second of painful silence, Draco grew more and more impatient with her. She needed to say something, needed to stop looking at him like he was the scum of the earth (and it really didn't matter that he was). This was his turf, not hers, and she needed to start explaining her very sudden and unwelcome incursion into enemy lines before he lost his goddamn mind.

It wasn't until she opened her mouth, then closed it, then repeated the motion a few more times before he realized that she was just as uncomfortable with the situation he was, and his fury morphed into joyful elation. He, the demon she had so nobly left behind, had rendered her, the insufferable do-good know-it-all, utterly speechless, and it was finally his turn to smile.

_...mate._

"Well, this is disappointing," came a voice from somewhere behind him, and Draco swore, angry that the interruption had happened before he could unload a barrage of his signature biting remarks.

Of course, he didn't need to turn around to know who had said the words, and he braced himself for whatever it was Theo was going to say next because if he had learned anything from his tenuous relationship with the dark-haired demon behind him, it was that Theo was exceptionally skilled in making even the smallest of things worse.

"I was hoping for a bit of bloodshed – hysterical shouting at a bare minimum, but this – this is just… sad," Theo finished, the disappointment and boredom obvious in his voice.

Draco didn't even bother replying (why would he?), and instead watched with overt curiosity as Hermione suddenly snapped out of her trance and turned to find the source of the voice.

"You!?" she exclaimed when her eyes finally found the culprit.

Draco pivoted on his feet and watched as Theo's eyes narrowed slightly, then widened almost imperceptibly, and Draco, who typically enjoyed anything that made Theo's skin crawl, found the whole exchange entirely way too suspicious for his liking.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Hermione asked, and Draco's mouth fell open in surprise as she sashayed (translation: just walked) toward the other demon.

_What the actual fuck?_

"Oh, I'm sorry," Theo said sarcastically, his eyes flickering to Draco as if this was all his fault. "I didn't realize my movements were restricted by the ever-changing whims of a few angels in Heaven." He stopped, glaring at the small angel as he swallowed the rest of his drink. "Oh wait, they aren't," he finished angrily.

Hermione had stopped a few paces away from Theo, staring at him with an intensity that, in a demon's horribly twisted and demented mind, could only mean one of two things, and Draco didn't particularly want to think about either of them.

"Fucking hell," Draco mumbled before snatching the bottle off the table next to him and starting to drink, ignoring the eye-watering burn as the liquid went down.

"Hey, that's–" Blaise said, reaching out to stop him.

"Shut it, Blaise," Draco said, planting his hand on his friend's face and shoving him away before continuing his long, drawn-out chug.

"Does _he_ know you're here?"

The voice was Hermione's again, and Draco pulled the bottle away from his lips long enough to realize that he was clearly missing something very, very important.

_He?_

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Theo replied, his eyes darting around nervously – clearly assessing whether or not he could escape the wrath of this particular miniature-sized angel unscathed.

Draco made a noise that landed somewhere between a hiccup and garbled giggle, and nearly tripped over his own feet as he set the bottle back down. He knew Theo was lying, and for a moment, he forgot entirely about the emotions swirling around in his gut because there was at least one other poor soul drowning in a kind of sorrow no amount of alcohol could drown.

"Know what?" Blaise asked after snatching the bottle and moving it out of Draco's immediate reach.

"Who?" Draco asked at the same time, having already deduced the half of the equation that Blaise had not.

But they were both ignored.

"Does _he_ know?" Hermione repeated, this time with a bit more bite, and Draco couldn't help but beam at the majesty of her fury.

If there was a silver lining to this entire debacle, it was that he had at least fallen for the most ruthless of the whole angelic bunch.

Theo opened his mouth, and then, apparently seeing something threatening in Hermione's eyes, promptly shut it again.

"That's what I fucking thought," she said, and Draco laughed again.

It was a mistake, of course, because having gotten the answer she had apparently been searching for, the single chuckle was all it took for her to remember that Draco was there, and she spun around angrily to face him once again.

"And as for you," she nearly shouted, stomping toward him until her finger was lodged firmly into the middle of his rib cage. "I don't have the time or patience for whatever this is," she said, gesturing at his renewed scowl. "We need to talk, and preferably someplace where I won't be tempted to commit murder in front of hundreds of people."

Theo's eyes widened in surprise, and Blaise, the bloody idiot that he was, decided that now was the opportune moment to speak.

"Well, at least now I understand why it was her," Blaise mused, winking ridiculously at Draco.

Draco closed his eyes and started shaking his head, but it was too late – he could practically hear the snap in Hermione's neck as she spun on her feet to chastise the third and final member of their idiotic motley crew.

"I don't know you," Hermione began, speaking with a fury that was far too familiar (and arousing) to Draco, "but I will disembowel you. And then I will miracle you back together and repeat the whole process until you wipe that shit ugly grin off your face."

The smile on Blaise's face promptly vanished, but Hermione didn't even bother waiting for a reply. She turned around again, her fists now balled at her sides, and for a second, Draco thought she was going to punch him in the face.

(Which wouldn't have been the first time… nor the second or the third).

She continued to glare at him, and he didn't actually need to communicate her thoughts. If he didn't agree to speak with her in the next couple of seconds, he'd be lucky to make it through the next five minutes with his favorite appendage intact.

"Fine," he said finally, letting out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Blaise, we're borrowing your office," he added without bothering to look over at his friend. "Do try to refrain from doing anything that will result in our cocks being sliced off while I'm gone."

As he turned to lead the way, he caught the slight twitch in the corner of Hermione's mouth, and for a second, a brief and fleeting moment, he felt like things might actually be okay. But then he remembered the whole her leaving thing, and he was right back to where they had started the night.

He ushered her into the large, dark space at the back of the lofted section of the club and closed the door before sauntering over the opposite side of the room.

"What do you want?" he asked as he leaned back against the edge of Blaise's obnoxiously large desk.

Instead of answering right away, Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"What do you know about the Apocalypse?" she said finally, annoyingly answering his question with a rather ridiculous one of her own.

Draco snorted. "What the actual fuck kind of question is that?" he retorted, eyeing her dubiously. "I'm a demon – I'll be more intimately involved than you might like to think."

Hermione threw her head back and groaned (and Beelzebub give him the strength to ignore that sinful sound coming of her throat). "What I mean is–" she paused, appearing to consider her next words carefully. "What do you know about how it starts?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm really not in the mood to decode whatever it is you're trying to communicate," he told her, his irritation with her bubbling out of his control. "If you have something to say, spit it out – plainly." He stopped, cocking his head. "Otherwise, I'm leaving."

Once again, she didn't answer right away. Instead, she started chewing nervously on her bottom lip, and if he didn't do something to chase the erotic images from his mind, he was going to wind up doing something horrendously stupid.

"Woman," he snapped threateningly. "You have five seconds…"

But she still didn't answer, and Draco, needing to remove himself before he quite literally pounced on her (and not necessarily in a way that would end well for either of them), pushed himself off the desk and moved toward the door.

"The trumpets," she blurted out just as his hand closed around the doorknob. Her voice was pleading with him, begging really, and Draco froze, stuck between his need to storm out of the room and his desire to fix whatever it was that she needed fixing.

And it was scary how easy it was for him to decide to stay.

"Excuse me?" he asked, trying not to seem too eager as he turned around. "Did you seriously come all the way down here to talk to me about the worst of all the brass instruments."

He wasn't a complete idiot. He _knew_ what she was talking about, knew where this conversation was undoubtedly headed, but he couldn't let her have all the power. Plus, it really was just so much more fun riling people up, especially her. She'd already unraveled him, and it was only fair that he do the same to her.

"No– I–" she paused, taking another deep breath. "I'm talking about _the_ trumpets you fucking imbecile," she shouted, throwing her hands up into the air. "All of seven of them. You might have heard of them!"

"What about them?" Draco snarled, not even the least bit bothered by her mocking tone.

Hermione made a sound that was far too similar to the moans she made when he was…

 _Nope, do not go there_ , he told himself as he outwardly put on the facade of extreme impatience.

"Are you being purposely daft, or have you just gotten dumber since I last saw you?" she quipped.

"I'm not the one being deliberately cryptic," he countered, beginning a long, slow stalk toward her. "And if I recall correctly, the last time we saw each other, you didn't seem overly concerned about what was going on in my head. You were much more focused on sucking my–"

"Shut up!" Hermione screeched, apparently having reached the end of her patience. "Just shut up!" She stopped, breathing heavily as she moved a few paces forward. "I'm sorry okay? I'm sorry I broke your little non-existent heart!" She paused again, and this time, Draco was convinced he was moments away from getting slapped, but the moment passed. Instead, whatever anger she was harboring toward him suddenly manifested into a look of pure fear. "Now, can you please just answer my question?" she continued, her voice quiet. "This is, whether you give a fuck or not, actually important."

Despite the sudden shift in her demeanor, Draco rolled his eyes. "Is that really how they teach you to apologize up there?" he asked her, taking another step. "I thought you lot were better than that?"

He didn't realize they had invaded each other's space until he looked down and she was there, staring back at him with her annoyingly big, beautiful eyes.

"You're insufferable," she said.

"And you're unbelievably irritating," he said in return.

They were inches away from each other, breathing heavily (and not in a way that was purely non-sexual).

"The trumpets," she whispered, clearly as affected by their sudden proximity as he was. "They're missing."

Those four small words were all she could manage, and yet, he could see the pleading urgency in her eyes. And he didn't particularly like it how that made him feel.

"Missing?"

She nodded.

_Bollocks._

As much as it pained him to admit, even just to himself, that was fucking news to him. And not terribly wonderful news.

"Did you– was your side involved?" she asked, clearly trying to make the question sound less accusatory than it actually was.

In all honesty, it was a fair question, especially considering they were playing for vastly different (and opposing) sides, but it still didn't soften the blow.

_Of course._

She wasn't here to mend things with him; she was here for information, trying to play him like a fucking fiddle.

He took a step back.

"And if we were, why would I tell _you_?" he challenged, not even attempting to hide the venom in his voice. "I don't owe you anything."

"No." She frowned but otherwise seemed to accept the truth of his statement. "You don't."

Draco was fuming. She couldn't just come bursting back into his life and expect… favors.

"Someone took them," she told him, taking the step that he had just given up. "I know you," she continued, her voice softer than it had been all night. "I know you don't want this world to end. You enjoy it far too much to do something this stupid."

Draco didn't answer. She was too close – _again_ – and he couldn't think straight, correction, he wasn't thinking straight.

"If someone uses them… first, the vegetation will burn. Then the oceans–"

"Stop," he said, waving his hand in the air. "I know what _they_ do."

"Please." She was begging now, and he couldn't take it.

"It wasn't me," he told her, mentally berating himself for being so goddamn weak. "It wasn't any of us as far as I know, but that certainly doesn't mean it wasn't."

Hermione sighed. Whether in relief or frustration, he couldn't tell.

"And the other two?" she asked a bit too pointedly, nodding toward the other side of the closed door.

"Are you really asking about both of them or just Theo specifically?"

There was nothing wrong with the question, but the flash of anger in Hermione's eyes was confirmation enough that there was something deeper there – something that Draco really _needed_ to know.

"Theo– he isn't…"

"He isn't what?" Draco asked, interrupting before he could watch her struggle with whatever it was she wanted to say but was too scared to articulate.

"He used to be a human," she said, lowering her voice as if her words were communicating some sort of state secret.

"And that's news to absolutely no one," Draco told her. "He made a deal with the devil – his soul for an eternity. That's how it works."

"Yes but–"

"Listen, the fucker is annoying as hell, but his personal life is his personal life," Draco interrupted. "Unless it has something to do with any of this, I really don't give a fuck."

"And if it might?" she asked, her golden-brown eyes pleading with him again.

Beelzebub, he couldn't resist her – not when she looked at him like he was the only being in the entire universe who could help her.

Draco dropped his head to his hands and sighed. "What in the world has Theo done this time?"

"It's less what he's done and more about… who."

Salazar, she loved being cryptic, but this was a puzzle even he could unscramble.

"So, our twisted, demonic Theo fucked an angel, is that it?" he asked, dragging his hands down his cheeks.

"Sort of."

"How does anyone sort of fuck someone else?"

"He wasn't a demon when he did it."

"Oh," Draco breathed. " _Oh_ ," he repeated, and then he burst out laughing.

This whole night was just dripping with irony.

"You're telling me that Theo – the same fucker who gets off on poisoning the minds of perfectly innocent young children – made a deal with devil so he that he could join his angelic lover in eternity?"

"Yes."

The irony really was too much, and Draco couldn't stop laughing. He doubled over, clutching his stomach as tears began to stream down the side of his face.

Hermione obviously wasn't as amused as he was, and she stood there with her hands on her hips, shaking her head as if she was about to dole out some wonderfully terrible punishment.

"Is this all you wanted to discuss or was there more?" Draco managed finally, wiping the sides of his eyes with the back of his hand.

"You're seriously just going to laugh this off?

Draco shrugged. "You can't fight the Apocalypse, Hermione," he said, rather unhelpfully.

It was the first time he'd said her name all night, and he nearly flinched as it left his mouth.

"If it was him–"

"Would it even matter?" he asked, interrupting again. "Would it even change what we're all now fated to do?"

She didn't answer right away, but eventually, she shook her head. "No," she began, pausing to exhale deeply, "it wouldn't."

"I know you consider yourself some sort of hero," he said, studying her intently. "But this isn't a battle you can win."

"No," she admitted freely, her eyes blinking rapidly. "Not without help."

And this was at least one statement that Draco had no issue with her not clarifying – the implication was blatantly clear.

"I really don't know what you want me to do," he told her, shaking his head. "The fate of this world was never ours to control – it never will be. It was bound to come to an end at some point or another, so it's best we just… get on with it."

"I know you don't mean that," she said, moving so close to him that he could feel the fluttering of her human form's very human heart.

"And if I do?" he asked, his mouth uncomfortably dry.

She licked her lips, not even bothering to hide the tormented hunger in her eyes as she loomed below him. "Then you're really not the demon I thought you were," she managed finally.

And before he could respond to whatever _that_ was, she was shoving him onto the desk behind them, and he… well, he was already fucked, wasn't he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song – Angels Like You by Miley Cyrus
> 
>  **a/n** : Oh, Harry – I really did love writing that bit and can't wait to throw you back into it. In the meantime, any guesses on who we get to learn more about in the next (hopefully next week) update?
> 
> Also, I'm a bottle of champagne deep posting this, so any errors are entirely the fault of the bubbles.


	4. Straight up villain

They called it her house of horrors, or if they were feeling particularly cheeky, her parliament of pain, but _they_ were fucking idiots, and Pansy had absolutely no idea why she was still friends with any of them.

Besides, _it_ was never anything other than exactly what someone wanted it to be.

Which really, if anyone ever cared enough to take a moment to think about it, was a pretty damn admirable thing for someone like her to do.

Pansy was a demon with a penchant for making even the most gruesome of suffering pleasurable. She was a sommelier of sorts – a self-taught scholar, if you will, who was exceptionally skilled at not only identifying a person's deepest and darkest (and dirtiest) carnal desires but also giving the same people things that they never would have thought they wanted. And she enjoyed every single delicious minute of it.

It was a very particularly naughty skill set, one which garnered her a substantial amount of celebrity in both the mortal and immortal worlds. But her notoriety as a sexual deviant didn't come from a place of obsessive control as so many assumed – instead, it grew from an innate aptitude for perception, something she refined during the first few hundred years of her above ground existence, and a patience that few of her kind possessed. And when that notoriety exploded into the kind of legend that not even her contemporaries couldn't ignore, she harnessed it, officially carving her place in the world by building her so-called little house of horrors and throwing open the front doors for business.

Her clients came from far and wide, most mortal but some very much so not, each with some made-up story or excuse as to why her services were required. Of course, their _whys_ were never all that important – as soon as the papers were signed, every single one of them willingly allowed her to tear them apart.

So yes, Pansy was a wonderfully gifted demonic being, and not even Draco, Hell's precious crown jewel, could defeat her where it really mattered. More souls carried her brand into Hell than that of any of her annoyingly unimaginative compatriots, and as far as she was concerned, that kind of success was enough of a distraction to hide behind.

Because despite everything she was and was supposed to be, she didn't actually get off on the screams of her conquests. She didn't salivate at the mere thought of trapping a mortal soul in some horribly wonderful and twisted way. For her, it had always been and always would be about the power that came from turning someone's horribly vanilla existence into something a bit more flavorful.

Which wasn't even remotely what she had been sent above to accomplish.

The truth was that Pansy was a lot more than she sold herself to be. Her icy yet alluring facade, like the beautiful dark-haired female form that she donned, was nothing more than a ruse – a mask that she hadn't properly taken off in over three thousand years. And she wore it so well that no one _really_ knew her as well as they thought they did.

And to uncover that mystery, one has to go back to the very beginning.

Pansy was sent above ground, like so many before her, with the sole instruction of collecting as many mortal souls as she could for her lord and master until the bitter end. It was an immortal's game, one in which, if you believed all the incessant chatter, was initiated for the sole purpose of plotting the purist of good versus most inherent of evil, and initially, she had no real reason to question it – bad was quite literally stitched into her bones.

The end game was all that mattered, or so she'd been told, but there was no ignoring the immense difficulty of her task. She quickly realized that human souls were more complex than she had been led to believe, and while some were more easily corrupted than others, there was no rule book to follow, no guidelines to help her along the way. Rather frustratingly, the _how_ had never been explicitly laid out for her, and so for a while, she resorted to doing things exactly like rest of the demonic idiots surrounding her – she acted like a complete and utter buffoon.

One by one, and often after months of painstaking work, she lured people in with her human form, tricking them into revealing all of their secrets before finding some way to get them to act on them in horribly delightful ways. She certainly didn't walk around with a beacon on her head advertising the things she was really capable of, at least not in the beginning, and it was torturous, slow going. She fucked because it was fun and because there really was nothing like the internal explosion that happened when it was done right, but she never used her body as the main vessel for her Hell-ish deeds.

That is until she realized just how incredibly powerful her female form was.

It wasn't a secret, not even when Pansy was first sent above, that men were savages of the worst kind. Their unceasing desire to stick their pricks into the nearest, warm hole no matter the consequences had always and would always be their undoing, and it didn't take her long to deduce just how backwards it all was.

The world was vastly different place than it was when she had first arrived, and yet at least in this regard, it was still very much the same.

While men raged war, freely bloodying their hands at the smallest hint of offense, women watched, patiently waiting as they plotted their revenge and attacking only when the time was ripe for victory. Where men had an eye-rolling ability to always make things worse than they needed to be, women had a kind of prowess that could only be born from a place of centuries of objectification and being told _no_. And Pansy saw what so many before her had not – women had an understanding of the world that men would never be able to grasp.

The history of the world may have been written by men, but if one simply had the patience to dig a bit deeper into men's stories of literally anything (and Pansy did), a vastly different narrative appeared. Because in actuality, women knew exactly what they were doing. They weren't as meek and powerless as all those horrid books made them out to be. They were calculating and cunning, biding their time until they finally had the opportunity to strike. They did what they had to survive, even when it meant leaving some of their own behind, but they never, ever forgot.

And there was really nothing Pansy loved more than watching a man pay for his sins under one of her stiletto-heeled feet.

It was a rare, kind of power, and she lusted for it in a way that would threaten her very existence if someone found out. She had found a purpose – one that wasn't dictated or controlled by some existential battle of the two sides of the same coin – and she didn't care how dangerous it was because it was _hers_.

Plus, she figured if someone ever caught on to her game, she'd at least be able to say that she found a way to live on her own terms. It was certainly more than the rest of them could claim.

* * *

Hermione hadn't realized how much she missed the taste of him until it was too late to undo what she had just done.

And honestly, once she felt his lips against her own, it was far too easy for her to ignore the warning bells going off in the back of her head.

Draco hesitated against her lips for only a split second before giving in, and when she felt his tongue trace along her bottom lip, almost as if he was testing how far she was willing to take it, she eagerly deepened their kiss. Unfortunately for the remaining bits of her sanity, he growled – fucking growled – when their tongues met, and she knew she had lost whatever game they were still playing because in that moment, she would give him absolutely anything he wanted.

Without even realizing what she was doing, her hands found their way to the front of his jacket. She was clinging to the silky fabric so tightly as she clumsily tried to pull him closer that she could hear the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping, but she just didn't care enough to pull away. Draco seemed to sense her impatience and moved his hands from where he had braced himself at the edge of the desk to the small of her back which, of course, made her shiver in anticipation for whatever he was going to do next.

It was so perfect she almost forgot why she had even left in the first place.

But then he had to go and ruin the whole gloriously stupid moment by moving his hands to her shoulders and roughly pushing her away.

Hermione stared at him bewildered, her lips still burning from the kiss she should never have initiated but hadn't wanted to end.

"You can't–" Draco began, looking at her indignantly – a look, she realized, she wasn't terribly fond of. "You can't just fucking come here and–" He stopped again, and although she still felt a twinge of pain at his rejection, she suddenly recognized that the look on his face wasn't exactly what she thought it was.

It was actually something a bit closer to pain, which was, not unsurprisingly for an angel whose duty it was to fight to rid the world of that very emotion, much harder for her to swallow.

Hermione opened her mouth to apologize, because after everything, she knew she at least owed him that, but then he turned his back to her, and the words left her mouth in a rapid, breathy exhale.

Even from her position, she could see Draco struggling to get the tangled mess of his emotions under control. He was breathing heavily, and after a near growl-like sigh, he dropped his head in some kind of resignation. His hands, which were hanging helplessly at his sides, were alternating between clenching into fists and relaxing, giving the indication that he was fighting an internal battle to calm himself down, and she simply watched it unfold with a near treacherous level of curiosity.

Eventually he lifted his head, releasing a slow breath, and Hermione swallowed heavily, mentally bracing herself for whatever he was going to say to her next.

"You can't just come here and act like things are the same," Draco told her as he ran a hand through his not-quite platinum, practically silver hair. "You can't just expect me to–"

"To still care?" she offered, reaching out to touch his shoulder before she could stop herself.

Draco recoiled from her touch, and Hermione couldn't help it – his continued rejection stung.

"But that's precisely the problem, isn't it?" he replied, chuckling maniacally as he finally turned to face her again. "I'll always care about you, and _you_ –" He nearly spat the word at her, and God, she wanted nothing more than to shove him back on the desk to shut him up but knew it would only infuriate him further, so she dropped her still outstretched arm and waited impatiently for him to continue.

"You came here knowing exactly how I feel about you," he nearly whispered, dropping his gaze as if he couldn't say the words and look at her at the same time.

_Umm… what?_

It was surprising to hear him talk this way, to have him toeing the line of honesty in a way he had never done when they were together (and not), and she wasn't quite sure what to do with this version of the demon she had dangerously bedded for centuries. More surprising perhaps, was the fact that he had managed to tear himself away from her to say any of this at all. It was clearly more than she had been capable of doing, and she couldn't help but hate herself a little more for it.

"So, what exactly is the problem then?" she asked, both confused and angry that he had somehow managed to best her in an avenue that was supposed to be hers to navigate. "Isn't this what you've wanted? Me, back right where I belong?"

He looked up, and Hermione saw something flash across his eyes, something far too similar to the very things she was feeling being this close to him again. She half-expected him to start shouting at her, telling her all the ways she was wrong, and he was right, but instead, he once again averted his gaze to the ground.

"You're not the only covert operative in the room, Hermione," he said after a few low but audible breaths. When his eyes latched onto hers again, she could see the storm brewing behind them, and her heart skipped a beat. "I know a ruse when I see one."

So, he really did think the worst of her then.

But the more gut-wrenching realization was that he wasn't wrong. She really hadn't come here for _him_ , and there was certainly no way around that.

"You already got the information you came for," Draco continued coolly, turning his back to her again. "Go find another toy to play with," he added before slamming his fists into the desk in front of him.

Even though she had been expecting something like this to happen, his words hit her like a ton of bricks. In all the years they'd known each other, he'd never once rejected her, not like this, and _this_ – being shoved away and scolded after she had just quite literally thrown herself at him – was more painful than leaving him had ever been.

"Draco," she pleaded, taking an unsure step toward him. "That's not– I didn't mean–"

He whipped around so quickly the whoosh of air caused by his movement was enough to startle her, but somehow she managed to stand her ground as he proceeded to close the distance between them with a single, purposeful step.

"Then, why did you leave?" Draco asked, towering over her with his fists clenched firmly at his sides. "Why, until now, have you been doing everything in your power to hide – to pretend this–" he gestured between the two of them "–never happened?"

"You know why I left," she said quietly, trembling slightly as he continued to hover over her. He was invading her space in a way that was both familiar and foreign, and she could feel her will-power slipping.

"Do I?"

He was looking at her so intently that Hermione couldn't take it. He was furious with her, and she knew she deserved it, but that didn't keep her from wanting to find a way to make it all stop, to finally admit that she was wrong for ever leaving. It's just that, being honest about _them_ , especially with _him_ , wasn't exactly what she had come here to do.

"I'm not a mind reader, Hermione," Draco added harshly.

She knew that he was goading her, that he was pushing her buttons so that he could catch her saying something she shouldn't, but she still took the bait without even a moment's hesitation.

"We fight for opposing sides," she told him, only stalling the inevitable confession.

Because while it was true, it wasn't actually the _truth_.

Draco growled – angrier this time but the effect on her was still annoyingly the same – and moved a hand to her hair, tugging on it roughly.

"And you knew that before you took me to bed," Draco retorted, his eyes flickering between her eyes and her mouth as if he were searching for something. "It certainly didn't stop you the hundreds of times after that."

The position he had forced her into was vulnerable but not quite threatening enough for her to jerk away from his hold, and there was some sick part of her that wanted him to take it even further.

"It should have," she whimpered in between ragged, agonizing breaths. The effect he was having on her was alarming, and she needed to be careful. She couldn't give in, couldn't tell him everything or it would ruin both of them. She certainly couldn't let her mind wander to all the wonderfully dirty things that tended to happen when he got riled up. "We're enemies," she explained (as if he didn't already know that). "We're sworn to fight each other until the end times."

Draco snorted. "That's a child's excuse," he said, rolling his eyes and tightening his hold on her hair. "Who the fuck actually cares that we weren't bred for the same purpose?"

"I do!" she shouted, finally shoving him away. She barely noticed the sting in her scalp as her curls were ripped from his hands.

He didn't appear to be disappointed with the change in their positions – in fact, he looked far too giddy for someone who had moments ago been on the verge of an apparent meltdown. He cocked his head and smirked at her, making it clear her reaction was one he had been hoping to coax out of her, and she found that she liked this look a lot less than the pained one decorating his features moments before. And then, she couldn't think of anything better to do, she balled her hand into a fist, took a small step toward him, and swung.

"No," Draco said, easily catching her fist before it could collide with her intended target. "That's not it at all."

He was still smiling, and it was sexy and infuriating, and she literally saw red.

_Oh, if he wants a fight, I'll give him a fight._

"It would never work," she told him, twisting her body as she took aim at him with her other arm.

He caught her second fist as easily as he did the first, and she tried to yank herself free, but he tightened his hold on her arms and pulled her back against his chest.

"It was working," he countered, bending his head so that his lips were hovering over her ear.

They had avoided this conversation for a thousand years, skirting the edge of the proverbial black hole rather than acknowledging its presence, but if they were ever going to move passed it, now was certainly as good a time as any.

"They'd take my wings away," Hermione explained, still struggling, albeit not terribly hard, to free herself from his hold. "And you – they'd probably do a lot worse to you."

Draco laughed, his breath tickling her ear. "Probably, and you have no idea," he replied as he wiggled his body even closer so that they were pressed together in a much too intimate way. "But none of that matters because you're still only giving me half-truths."

Hermione nearly shrieked. The demon was still as maddening as he'd always been, and even though he was right, she couldn't let it slide. Before he had a chance to tempt her further, she used one of her legs to kick at his shin, and when she felt the tell-tale shift in his body indicating that he was off-balance, she bent over, using the weight of her body to send them both tumbling to the floor.

For a moment, she thought she had succeeded in freeing herself from his grasp, and she reached out with her arms to try to scramble away, but one of his arms collapsed around her before she could get away and pulled her back toward him. In a near effortless move, he flipped their respective positions and pinned her to the floor.

_Fuck._

This wasn't supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to let him win, and yet, every inch of her body was screaming at her to just give him what he wanted.

And because she was still very much so an idiot when it came to him, her attempts to fight it were annoyingly futile.

"I don't know what you want me to say," she muttered, shifting underneath him but making no real effort to move.

"I told you – I want the fucking the truth," he replied, his lips inches away from her own. "I want you to be the honest little angel you've always sold yourself to be and just tell me why you ran."

She could escape from her position easily enough – they both knew she had the strength and skill to do it – but for some foolish and misguided reason, she didn't even try.

"We can't change who we are, Draco," she admitted, although she could sense that her line of reasoning wasn't all that surprising to the demon above her. "No matter how hard you might want to subvert the rules of your existence, in the end, you can't – just as I can't with my own." She paused, letting her eyes close (because if she kept looking at him, she would implode). "It doesn't matter how much I lo–"

Her eyes snapped open.

_Oh, shit._

She was saying too much. This was a mistake, and she was actually going to kill Harry for making her come here in the first place.

"How much you what?" Draco prompted with a grin and _fuck him_ because she knew he knew what she had almost said.

His mouth was too close, and when he shifted his hips suggestively, it was all over.

"Draco," she pleaded, hoping rather helplessly that he'd just let her go – let her get up and regain what remained of her dignity before forcing her to continue.

Of course, he was a demon, so he didn't, and she knew she had no other choice but to finally tell him.

"How much you want, Hermione?" he repeated huskily, and _fuck_ , the sound of his voice unraveled her.

Still, her lips trembled as she prepared to finally say the words.

"I–"

But the door to the room suddenly swung open, and she was, at least momentarily, spared the ensuing embarrassment of being the first one to say those three blasted words.

"Oi, Draco!" a voice shouted into the room. "We have a problem."

Hermione could hear the urgency in the words, but Draco didn't move, instead growling audibly in annoyance and frustration.

"Not now, Blaise!" he shouted back, not taking his eyes off her.

"As much as we'd all love to see what happens next," came a second voice – Theo's, Hermione recognized without having to look up, "your father is here. And unless you'd like–"

Draco froze. "Fuck."

He jumped up onto his feet so quickly that it took her a moment to register that she was now alone on the floor. "Fuck," he swore again, quickly glancing down at Hermione before turning toward his friend. "She can't be seen."

"No shit, Sherlock," Theo said as he moved to quickly shut the door behind him.

Hermione had never once heard Draco mention his father, and so as she pushed herself onto her feet, she looked around at the three demons surrounding her trying to get a read on just how bad the situation was.

And from the looks on all of their faces, it wasn't just bad, it was borderline catastrophic.

"Father?" she asked, and although Draco turned to look at her again, he only offered her a pained nod of his head before turning back to face his friends.

Hermione didn't hear him speak, but judging from the other two demon's terse nods, he had silently communicated what needed to happen next.

"I'll take her out the back way," Blaise offered, his eyes flickering between her and Draco nervously. "I doubt your father will be offended that the owner of his least favorite establishment doesn't greet him at the front door. Just tell him that I'm… disposing of someone."

Draco nodded quickly. "Hopefully his goons stay out front."

"I can handle it if they don't," Blaise assured him, although Hermione caught a flicker of something in his eyes that seemed to indicate he wasn't so sure he could.

"What is going–?" she began, trying to catch Draco's attention again.

"She needs to fucking go," Theo interrupted, shooting her an impatient glare.

"But, we're not–" she tried again.

"Now!" Theo ordered, gesturing to something behind her.

It took her a moment to realize that there were now only two demons standing in front of her, but before she could react, an arm wrapped around her and began pulling her toward the back of the room. The arm didn't belong to Draco, and when she looked up at the dark-skinned demon now moving her roughly across the floor, she tried to wrestle her way out of his arms, but a whisper stopped her.

"This will not end well for him if you are caught." Blaise's voice was so quiet it was barely audible, but there was no mistaking the fear he was trying to hide from her.

And it was enough for her to push aside her growing protests – at least for this particular moment in time. She nodded quickly and let him lead her to the space behind his desk toward a door she hadn't noticed before. Blaise pulled it open and tugged at her arm, indicating that they were to go inside, but Hermione hesitated, glancing over her shoulder one last time. She was hoping to get Draco's attention before he disappeared to deal with whatever it was that he needed to deal with, but he was already gone.

When she turned back around, Blaise was studying her curiously, but before she could open her mouth to bombard him with questions, he turned to face the seemingly blank wall on the other side of the small room. He waved a hand in the air, and as soon as his movement ceased, an open doorway appeared in front of them. Hermione squinted into the void beyond, but quickly realized it wasn't a void at all – behind the wall was a staircase leading down onto what she could only assume would be a dark, dangerous alleyway perfect for all kinds of demonic deeds.

"I can take it from here, thank you very much," she said, shooting her companion an icy glare as she finally yanked her arm away.

The demon chuckled. "Maybe," he told her, seemingly unbothered by her blatant irritation with the whole situation. "But if there are more demons posted out back, ones that have absolutely no qualms about murdering an angelic being like yourself, do you really think you'll be able to escape unscathed without a friendly neighborhood immortal to help?"

She hated to admit it, but he was right, and judging from everyone's visceral reaction to the appearance of Draco's father, these weren't the kind of immortals that Hermione had the firepower to deal with on her own.

"Fine," she told him, and she moved through the open doorway, pausing when she was through to gesture for him to show her the way.

Blaise chucked again and quickly followed her, waving his hand behind him once he was on the other side of the doorway to return the wall to its original state.

The ensuing darkness was unsettling, but it only lasted a few, short moments before a line of elaborately adorned and clearly ancient torches sprang to fiery life, lighting their way.

"How very original," Hermione noted, lifting an eyebrow at her companion.

Next to her, Blaise merely shrugged. "Nostalgia," he muttered before beginning his descent.

Hermione rolled her eyes to herself but quickly followed.

They moved quietly down the stairs, but she didn't miss the fact that Blaise stayed in front of her with his hands raised slightly in an almost protective stance.

The whole thing was strange, and arguably offensive considering she wasn't some silly damsel in distress, but she knew better than to argue at this particular moment in time. Because despite the inexplicability of what was happening, the demon in front of her was still willingly escorting her away from whatever trouble was waiting for Draco back inside the club.

And it wasn't exactly something she could understand.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Blaise paused in front of another seemingly blank wall and muttered a word Hermione couldn't hear. For a moment nothing happened, but then, almost as if the wall had been testing her patience (or lack thereof), a large, metal door appeared, and she sighed softly in relief.

Hermione watched as Blaise pressed an ear up against the dark metal, muttering another inaudible word. The demon moved a finger over his mouth, silently shushing her, and winked before closing his eyes. She rolled her eyes again (because _honestly_ , she wasn't born yesterday) and waited, drumming her fingers impatiently against the top of her thigh, until he opened his eyes and nodded, indicating the coast was clear.

"I wouldn't linger," he instructed as he turned the handle and pushed the door open, the metal squeaking as the edge of the door separated from its frame. He stopped, peeking around the side of the door before stepping aside.

Hermione stepped outside, a hand already raised in preparation to transport herself away, but she hesitated and turned around before the demon behind her could disappear. "Will he be–?"

"Oh, don't start caring about him now, darling," Blaise said, and then he was gone (along with the door), leaving her alone in a dark, deserted alley.

"Fuck," she swore, throwing her head back in frustration before similarly disappearing into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song - VILLAIN by K/DA
> 
> a/n: Took a little unexpected break over the holidays and into the new year, but I'm back! I don't think I can promise weekly postings yet, but I can promise that I won't leave you hanging quite this long again. I hope you enjoyed Pansy's short intro (saving the rest of her story for later) and a bit more unresolved sexual tension between our favorite duo. Oh, and of course, can't wait to dig more into the appearance of my second favorite Malfoy.


	5. Eat you alive

Subtlety wasn't a word in Ron's in vocabulary.

He was lovable. Dependable. The angel you'd turn to when you wanted a bit of good-natured fun. But he wasn't, even by his own admission, the kind of being you could trust to keep any sort of deep, dark secret – he had a bit of a chronic issue with blurting out things that he shouldn't.

(But we'll get back to that).

Family was important to him, and considering that real, blood relationships weren't exactly common among any class of immortal, he was proud to have one. He was the product of a long line of angels dedicated to the light, and as the sixth son of two beings not normally given free reign to reproduce, he was an anomaly, a celebrity of sorts (although his sister, the lone daughter in the family of infamously troublesome sons, took the cake). And it certainly stoked his ego more than probably was good for him.

He wasn't Heaven's only golden boy, but he was well-liked and respected for plenty of reasons other than the perfectly angelic beings he surrounded himself with. Humor was his most dangerous weapon, and he used it to penetrate some of Heaven's most difficult to crack social circles.

He was a tested warrior, much like many of the others sent to look after the land below, but what set him apart was the fact that he boasted the least amount of failures of anyone in his line of work. And sure, some of that was the result of his meticulous case selection, preferring to take on those that had a high probability of succeeding, but much of his success was the direct result of throwing around the impressively massive corporal form he had been issued.

There wasn't a bad bone in his body, at least not intentionally, and he didn't test his boundaries, at least not the important ones. His failures were rare, but when he did lose, he wouldn't rest until the wrong was righted. And while nuance may not have been his forte, he certainly understood the importance of maintaining the razor thin cosmic balance that kept Earth from erupting into flames enough that he didn't seek out unnecessary and unsanctioned fights.

In short, he was everything he had been bred to be. His image was squeaky clean, his reputation untainted. On paper, he was as perfect as they came.

(…well, at least until recently. And as with the other thing, we'll definitely circle back).

Without being anything other than what he was, he had managed to impress those in charge. He was one of the Old Man's favorite weapons, and as the centuries of his Earth-bound existence passed, he was trusted with more and more of Heaven's most dangerous deeds. It should have made him happy; it should have made him proud.

But none of it was enough to keep the only thing that he had ever _really_ cared about.

_Her._

She was a fucking diamond, so perfect and pure, and everyone in her sphere of influence was simply lucky enough to exist in the same general vicinity as her. He had known from the moment he met her that she'd never be _his_ – not really, and yet, he pursued her anyways, telling himself that any time with her at all would be time well spent.

And it was – it really, really was.

It's just that the problem with fantasies is that they're exactly that – fantasy, and when the facade he had built up around the reality of the whole situation came tumbling down, he realized just how deep he had lost himself in an unachievable dream.

They could have been good together, or so he had thought, and even though she had given it a go, it was obvious from that start that she had never seen things the same way. She may have been his perfect match, but she was never destined to be tethered to anyone like him. He loved her and she loved him, but she wasn't actually _in love_ with him, and that would always be the most tragic bit of his generally enjoyable existence. You see, he wanted her with every ounce of his being, always would, but she didn't want him – not like that.

It was a painful revelation, but it was a necessary one, and in the end, it was the push that he needed to do the only thing he knew would make her happy again – he tore his own heart out and simply let her go.

And even after all this time, he loved her still. He spent centuries downplaying the hurt, and no matter how painful it got pretending friendship was enough for him, he couldn't bring himself to walk away from the only bit of her that he had left.

Not even, and this little tidbit surprised even himself, after finding out about the demon she had been consorting with on the side.

Unfortunately, the problem with a bombshell like that was that Ron couldn't just ignore it –in fact, he did the complete opposite. It seemed that when it came to her, he wasn't just irrational, he was a fucking glutton for punishment.

"You don't deserve her," he had told the demon after finding the ferret pacing with his head down in a deserted alleyway.

They were the only words he used to announce his appearance, and before the demon could finish turning around, Ron swung.

The punch knocked the blond right off his feet in a rather spectacular fashion, but Ron's feeling of triumph was only momentary. Because when the demon finally managed to identify who had attacked him, the idiot simply smirked and lounged back into the dirty brick wall behind him as if the position was the most comfortable thing in the world.

And then the blond had laughed – fucking laughed – not even bothering to wipe the blood away from the corner of his mouth as he looked up at Ron with a strange sparkle in his otherwise dark and stormy eyes.

"And let me guess," the demon said, finally answering as he cocked his head and rested an arm on a casually bent knee, "you do?"

Ron clenched his fists angrily. It was irritating enough knowing she had chosen _this_ over him, but the fact that the demon seemed completely unbothered by Ron's sudden appearance and subsequent violence, almost as if he had been expecting it, was beyond infuriating.

"No," Ron replied, ignoring the sting in his already bruising knuckles as his fingernails dug into the palm of his hand. "No one does."

"She's a big girl," the demon noted, making a show of pushing himself back onto his feet and brushing the dirt off his suit, "she doesn't need you to protect her."

They were practically the same height, and the change in their respective positions brought them far closer together than Ron was comfortable with. But it also allowed him to finally get a closer look at the Hell-ish being in front of him. There was a coolness behind his eyes, a shield of sorts, and yet, there was also something uncomfortably familiar buried beneath, a hint of an emotion that Ron hadn't realized a demon could possess.

And that was all it took.

_Of course._

"I'm not here to protect her," Ron nearly snorted, smirking with knowing as he caught the slightly confused look on the blond's face. "I just needed to see for myself if it was true."

"If _what_ 's true?" the demon asked with a growl, apparently realizing that he had let something slip past his defenses.

And if Ron had been even the tiniest bit unsure before, he definitely wasn't anymore.

"If you really love her," Ron said, lifting a hand to brush a strand of red hair out of his eyes.

The movement finally allowed him to assess the damage the punch had caused to his hand, but the blood and pain were a welcome respite to what he was feeling inside.

She could have had anyone else in Heaven, on Earth even, and it would have been easier than _this._ But this... God this was just too fucking ironic.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the demon tried, the clench of his fists giving away just how much that was a lie, "I don't–"

"Oh, but you do," Ron asserted, dropping his hand. Injuries could be healed, but this – there would never be another moment like this. "And when she decides to tear your heart out and stomp on it – and trust me, she will – I'm probably the only other person who will be able to comprehend how you feel."

The demon's hands were shaking at his sides, almost as if he was struggling against some innate need to attack, but he didn't move.

"She means nothing to me," the demon managed through a clenched jaw – and at least this time it was a good lie, it's just that Ron wasn't as imperceptive with emotions everyone always thought him out to be.

"She means something to everyone," Ron countered, shoving his uninjured hand in his pocket. And he could tell, could just see it on the demon's face, that she meant a hell of a lot to the demented being in front of him. There really was no other reason for any of this.

"Listen, I don't know what you're–"

Ron threw his hands up in the air and took a step back.

"Just do try not to fuck it up," he said before disappearing.

And as depressing up as it sounds, he had actually meant it.

Now, it would be so much easier if he had just let it go, so much simpler if he had just resolved to move on and let it be. But he didn't – he couldn't. It was too much for one angel to get over on his own, and so what happened next was more predictable than anything that had happened in his exceptionally long and gifted life.

Walking into that damn house may have been a momentary lapse of judgement, but staying, especially as long as he did, and not only willingly but happily, was something else entirely. And the demon waiting for him inside was nothing like the angel he had left behind.

Which was exactly the point.

Their relationship wasn't a relationship (that wasn't her thing) but it was what he needed when he needed it. He gave her everything – his body, his freedom, even his control – and she took it, using it to keep him perched tortuously on the edge of sanity for longer than was probably necessary.

But he loved every minute of it, loved how it made him feel because for the first time in a long time, he wasn't feeling anything about _her_.

Which brings us right to the idiotic thing he shouldn't have done.

He talked.

And it wasn't just innocent gossip, it was dangerous intel which in the wrong hands was a recipe for quite a bit more than disaster. But the worst part wasn't that he'd talked, it wasn't even that he'd lost his damn mind in the first place, it was that he, an operative trained to identify the kinds of individuals that knew more than they should, had missed the most dangerous one.

So yes, Ron was a soldier for the light, but he was also an unintended informant for another side – one, it turns out, that is much, much worse than Hell. And he knew as soon as the trumpets went missing that he hadn't just royally fucked up, he'd lost the battle before he'd even had a chance to right his most terrible wrong.

* * *

There was nothing normal about Draco's relationship with his father.

For starters, father figures weren't exactly standard issue in a place like Hell. Most demons were simply imagined into existence, and only the most devout of satanic followers were allowed to produce their own demonic offspring – which unfortunately for a family-tied demon like Draco, meant that he had to bend the knee to more than one sick, twisted immortal being.

On the flip side, however, the early days of his existence couldn't have been easier. Demons seemed to fear and revere him almost as much as they did his father, and getting what he wanted was as simple as voicing his frustrations about something within earshot of one of his father's many cronies. It had all been ever so endearing, ego-boosting even, until he realized that it wasn't really _him_ that everyone was so afraid of, and while it wasn't exactly a cheerful revelation, it was the one he needed to finally grow the fuck up.

But Draco wasn't just the spawn of one of Hell's most feared and favored fallen angels nor was he simply his father's wayward offspring destined to come crawling home eventually, he was also half of the only being who'd ever managed to tame that untamable beast – his beautiful and mysterious mother. So, when he finally began to carve his own way, he flourished in ways that he never would have from within his father's shadow, and not unsurprisingly, he became Hell's most formidable Prince of Darkness. And it was a not so minor detail that his father tended to overlook.

Of course, there was no erasing all the time Draco had spent idolizing his father, all the time he'd wanted nothing more than to be just like him nor the seeds that his childish behavior had planted in his father's mind. But things couldn't stay the same, and as his centuries above ground ticked by, he focused less and less on his father's wishes and more on his own. And sure, that didn't change the fact that he owed every moment of his gloriously demented existence to the very demon he was trying so desperately to distance himself from, but at least he no longer felt guilty about living his perfectly demented life.

So, to say things were complicated with his father would be a bit of understatement.

Especially considering that the beast himself had just shown up announced after nearly a century of stone-cold silence.

"What do you think he wants?" Theo whispered as they moved together down the stairs.

Draco's eyes were busy scanning the dance floor below them, but he didn't miss the sharp edge to his friend's hushed voice.

"No fucking idea," Draco mumbled in reply, waving a hand to quickly repair the damage to the front of his suit.

"I spot two by the bar," Theo said, concealing his survey of the space in front of them with a practiced flip of his hair. "And at least one other near the back door."

Draco nodded in acknowledgement, pausing in the well-placed shadow near the bottom of the stairs to tug at the ends of his sleeves. "Three by the back door," he corrected as his eyes passed over two comically large men standing to the side of the scantily dressed woman Theo had spotted. "For fuck's sake," he groaned as he caught sight of a few more not-so-inconspicuous demons. "He brought the whole fucking brigade. There's one more by the entrance, and I count at least four others on the dance floor."

Theo grunted, and while to an outsider the sound may have appeared dismissive, it was simply the noise Theo made when he wasn't exactly sure what to say.

Not surprisingly, however, the demon was quick to recover.

"He always did like to travel in style," Theo noted, turning to place a hand on Draco's back. "Definitely sucks to be you," he jested although the look in his eyes was anything but cheerful.

But Draco rolled his eyes anyways because _fuck,_ in this exact moment, Theo certainly wasn't wrong, and if that wasn't funny, he didn't know what was.

"Keep Blaise out of trouble," Draco told him, forcing himself to smile. He certainly couldn't afford to look anything but composed. "The last thing we need is a repeat of last time."

Theo shook his head and chuckled quietly. "With pleasure," he replied, offering Draco one last (slightly pained) smile before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

With his last few seconds of peace, Draco took a moment to collect his thoughts. He knew it would be futile for him to try to relax completely, but he needed to do something to release the more obvious tension in his body. Taking a deep breath, he rolled his shoulders back slowly and move his head side to side. And then, once he was satisfied that he was as relaxed as he was going to get, and before he could turn and run, he put one foot in front of the other and made for the front door, moving a single finger in front of him so that he could maneuver through the dance floor without having to fight against the sea of bodies blocking his path.

He moved slowly but purposefully, doing his best to exude calm despite still feeling anything but. It was unnerving being watched as he was, and even though he could still sense the glances of hopeful adoration from a handful of human souls, they were overwhelmed by the near-suffocating glares from the immortals now sprinkled across the vast, dark room.

 _Fucking demons_.

He was only a few steps from the entrance when he heard a low, gravelly voice calling his name, and he turned to see one of his father's favorite goons leaning against a nearby table, staring at him with a stupid, almost knowing grin on his face.

"Goyle," Draco acknowledged, trying to keep his face blank.

He wasn't the brightest of his father's so-called followers, but he was extremely dangerous, and the pit in Draco's stomach grew.

"Look who's all grown up," the demon replied, lifting an eyebrow in what Draco assumed was amusement. The end of a toothpick was sticking out of the side of the demon's mouth, and Draco had to resist the urge to reach out and snap the thing in half. "You certainly took your sweet time coming down here."

"I was busy," Draco replied, refusing to take the bait.

The demon chucked. "I'm sure you were," he mused as he removed the toothpick from his mouth and pushed himself off the table. "You know he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Then by all means," Draco began, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice, "take me to him."

The demon studied Draco for a moment longer before flicking the near-destroyed toothpick to the ground and gesturing for Draco to follow him outside.

They moved through the elaborate entrance quickly, and Draco made a mental note to thank Blaise for his insistence on installing the blinding display of overhead lights because it was likely the only thing masking the nerves that had managed to commandeer the features as he waked. He inhaled slowly, using his breath to focus on clearing his mind as he followed the stout demon out onto the street and around a dark corner. Thankfully, by the time the demon turned around and pointed to a figure waiting in the shadows, he had his emotions under control.

Draco nodded and sauntered (as privileged sons so often do) toward the figure, making a show of checking his watch as he approached. He would have known it was his father without looking – there was no mistaking the perturbed aura around that fucker – but the long platinum hair was a dead giveaway.

It was Lucius, and whether Draco was happy about it or not, there would be no escaping until his father deemed it acceptable.

"Draco," the figure called out as he came to a stop at the edge of the shadow.

Other than the length of their hair, they were near perfect mirror images of each other. Their skin was the same shade of alabaster. Their eyes were both piercing and unnaturally grey. Their mannerisms were identical – somehow both effortless and calculated. Even their heights matched, although Draco, who was still very much so vested in the physicality of his role, was more broadly built.

They were very much so the same in so many ways, and yet Draco had still grown into something his father had never expected – a disobedient and uncontrollable son.

"Father," Draco replied, bowing his head less out of respect and more out of habit. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

The demon finally stepped forward into the moonlight, illuminating his face.

"Business," the demon said, frowning slightly as his eyes traveled over his son.

It appeared, even after all this time, that his father was still capable of finding something wrong with his appearance – only this time, Draco was all too happy to ignore the flash of disproval in his father's eyes.

"Care to be a bit more specific?" Draco asked, feigning some combination of irritation and impatience. "I'm in the middle of something."

His father snorted, seemingly amused with the last bit, but if the comment bothered him, he chose not to address it. "As much as I'd love to avoid going inside that horrid establishment, what I came here to discuss requires a bit more–" he paused, looking around him with blatant disgust "–privacy."

"Blaise was just finishing up with someone in his office," Draco offered up, trying not to think too hard about the immortal being his friend had indeed been 'finishing up' with. "I'm sure he'll have disposed of them by the time we make it inside."

"I don't suppose there's a back door we could use?" his father inquired, raising an eyebrow. "I'd rather not be seen."

Draco nearly shook his head in annoyance but thought better of it. "We're standing right in front of it," he pointed out. "As I'm sure you're well aware."

His father smiled. "Wonderful," Lucius said happily. "Do lead the way."

Draco turned, breathing a quiet sigh of relief that his father hadn't plopped himself outside the 'only to be used in case of serious emergencies' door – the very same door an angel would be using to escape – and the tightness in his chest eased somewhat. When Blaise first presented his designs for his club, his request for multiple secret back doors, one of which to be more heavily guarded by magic than others, seemed a bit superfluous, but in retrospect, it was yet another seemingly ridiculous design element he'd have to remember to thank Blaise for. And it seemed, at least for now, that Blaise's foresight had managed to trick a demon exceptionally skilled at sniffing out things that he wasn't meant to find.

But Draco knew that next time, they might not be so lucky.

The hidden door his father had managed to locate was one of two that could be opened from the outside, and as Draco approached the seemingly blank brick wall, he waved his hand to reveal a large metal door that would allow them to intercept the stairway that led to Blaise's (hopefully abandoned) office. Gritting his teeth, he opened the door and stepped inside.

A noise prompted Draco to turn around, and he caught sight of an obviously confused Goyle.

"Wait here," he heard his father order before following him inside, and Draco, who was as surprised as Goyle at his father's request, relaxed a bit more than he had expected would be possible. Whatever his father had come to speak to him about, it at least didn't require the assistance of a bodyguard – which meant that this was either family business or something his father couldn't trust with even his closest associates.

Draco smirked as the other demon bowed his head and backed away – _just like a fucking dog_ – but he only paused for a moment before waving a hand to seal the door again.

"Handy," his father noted, although it wasn't exactly a compliment.

"Yes," Draco replied as he turned again. "Blaise's office is on the next level," he added, pointing up the stairs.

He didn't wait for an acknowledgement from his father before he started moving, but he knew the older demon would follow without question. It was one of Lucius' favorite power plays, and Draco figured he'd toss his father this one little unexpected bone before the inevitable disappointment had time to settle in.

Their ascent was quicker than the descent Draco had dragged out a few minutes ago, and when he reached the door to Blaise's office, he threw it open roughly, purposely making enough noise so that if anyone was still inside, they would know now was a good time to hide. The older demon waltzed passed him into the room with his nose slightly scrunched, and it took every bit of Draco's willpower to not laugh at the image. He kicked the door shut behind him and watched as his father moved farther into the room, using his cane to being poking at random objects.

"So, what is it?" Draco asked, leaning back against the wall as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"An opportunity," Lucius replied, not bothering to turn around as he prodded a pile of books on the edge of Blaise's desk.

"For what?" Draco said, unable to resist the urge to roll his eyes. "Because whether you believe it or not, I don't actually need help in the demon-ing department."

Lucius pushed the top book from the pile onto the floor, and Draco could almost hear the smile on his face. "No, son," he said as he paused his prodding.

His voice was too bloody cheerful, and Draco didn't like it – not one fucking bit.

"Alright, I'll bite," he said, eyeing his father suspiciously as the older demon resumed his inspection of the objects on the desk in front of him. "An opportunity for what?"

Lucius paused again, this time turning around to face his son. But instead of immediately focusing on Draco, the demon's eyes flickered over to the closed door as if to double and triple check that it was properly closed.

"It's charmed," Draco offered, although he was sure his father had already probed the wards. "No one will be able to hear us."

"Indeed it is," his father said, finally meeting Draco's eyes. "And to answer your question – power."

And even an idiot wouldn't have missed his father's emphasis on the last word.

"We have power," Draco replied flippantly, but the sparkle in his father's eyes was disconcerting, and he knew without having to ask that whatever it was his father was on about wasn't, strictly speaking, legal for an immortal being bound to Hell. "Lots of it, in case you've forgotten," he added, hoping it was a firm enough statement to finagle his way out of the entire conversation.

Of course, it wasn't – it never would be.

"Not this kind, Draco," his father assured him, his voice noticeably lower than it had been a moment ago. "Not the kind that would give us the control we were destined to have."

It wasn't the first time Draco had heard his father lament about not being in command of Hell's vast resources, but it was the first time he'd ever heard his father talking as if taking Hell's top seat was even remotely achievable for anyone other than the demon who currently sat upon it.

"Father," Draco warned, his voice almost a whisper. "What you're talking about is treason."

And now it was Draco's turn to glance nervously at the door. He wanted no part of this – whatever _this_ was – but he knew if the wrong people overheard what his father was suggesting, then not even Draco could avoid the punishment that would likely follow.

"Of sorts," his father tried to assure him with a smile. "And only if we lose."

But Draco was shaking his head before his father had finished speaking.

"No," he said, uncrossing his arms. "I'm not doing this. You're not doing this."

"Oh, but it's already begun," Lucius replied blithely, lifting his cane higher into the air so that he could twirl the perfectly polished snakehead in his hand. "And I'd like you to take your place at my side."

Draco opened his mouth to protest but promptly shut it again.

_You've got the be fucking kidding me._

"Father," he said, bringing his hand to his head and using his thumb and middle fingers to apply pressure to his temples. He could feel the sudden onset of an intense headache, and he knew that he'd be spending the rest of the night drinking himself into a stupor to escape it. "What did you do?"

" _I_ did nothing," Lucius replied rather unhelpfully.

And that was all Draco needed him to say because suddenly, everything clicked into place.

The missing trumpets. Hermione's desperate plea for help. His father hadn't just gone off the rails, he had started an unsanctioned war with the only side capable of destroying them all.

"What did _you_ do?" Draco growled, hoping this time his father would actually answer him.

"We've been doing servants work for far too long," his father began, annoyingly choosing to once again side-step the question. "Wouldn't you prefer to finally be in charge of your fate?"

"I prefer to not be killed in some horribly inventful and public way as punishment for an attempted and failed coup," Draco told him angrily. "And unlike you, I'm perfectly content with the way things are."

His father laughed laughed. "Are you _really_?" he asked, staring at his son like there was something he knew that he shouldn't. And it was another one of his father's looks that Draco wasn't particularly fond of.

"Yes," Draco replied, trying to keep his face impassive.

"You always were a bit too narrow-minded for my liking," Lucius noted as he looked down at his fingernails again, "but I suppose it can't be helped that you're not one hundred percent mine." He paused, cocking his head in an almost threatening manner.

"And I'm sure mother will be so pleased to learn that you still think so little of her," Draco growled in response.

Draco's words seemed to distract his father for a moment, and the older demon's eyes glazed over slightly as if he was reliving a very specific and painful memory. Unfortunately, the moment was gone almost as soon as it had begun, and the dream-like tint in his father's eyes was quickly replaced with something a bit more menacing.

"Do you really think they'll let you keep that angel of yours?"

Draco blanched.

"I don't–" he tried, but his father cut him off before he could finish.

"She is a pretty one," Lucius remarked. "It'd be a pity if something happened to her."

"I haven't seen her in years," Draco lied, waving his hand dismissively in the air as he scrambled to compose himself. "She was a hell of a fuck, but I grew bored of her antics – honestly, you'd be doing me a favor by getting rid of her."

If his father had known Hermione was here moments ago, he would have slipped in unnoticed just to prove a point, and so while it was a dangerous lie for Draco to tell, it wasn't a lie that his father could unravel… yet.

"The way I heard it, she was the one who grew bored of you," Lucius goaded, and Draco clenched his jaw so tightly that he was surprised the teeth in his mouth didn't shatter.

"What is it you want from me?" Draco managed finally, returning his father's glare with one of his own.

His father didn't actually have to verbalize his threat. He was willing to overlook Draco's extracurriculars, cover for them even, if, and only if, Draco did what he was told

"Join me," Lucius told him, leaning leisurely against his cane.

"Just you?" Draco asked dubiously.

He already knew the answer, but he knew he wouldn't be able to keep his emotions under control if the conversation returned to _her_ , and so he happily pushed the conversation in another, albeit similarly troubling, direction.

"And others."

It was an unhelpful response, but at the same time, it gave quite a bit away.

"What others?" Draco queried, his breathing slowly returning to normal as his father seemed perfectly content to follow the new line of questioning.

"I'm afraid that's _need to know_ ," Lucius replied with a sneer.

"And I don't?"

"No," his father told him. "Not yet at least."

Draco threw his hands up to his face and groaned.

"I'm not one of your lackeys," he said angrily as he dropped his hands back to his sides. "I won't follow you blindly down some asinine path

"It's not asinine, Draco," his father asserted. "This needs to happen."

And it was obvious even from where he was standing that his father truly believed that.

"Do I even have a choice?" Draco asked after a few moments.

"Would it be easier if you didn't?"

Translation – Draco didn't, not if he wanted to keep _her_ alive.

"God damnit!" he shouted, turning to punch the wall next to him. "I'm not a child anymore. Either be more specific about what you're asking me to do, or this conversation is over."

And although he wasn't a child – far from it – his little burst of anger was the most childish thing he'd done in centuries, and as soon as his fist collided with the wall he wished he could take it back. But since he couldn't, he simply dropped his bloodied hand to his side and glared at the demon on the other side of the room.

His father's eyes flickered over his son, almost as if he actually cared, and then he did something he had never done in front of Draco before – he sighed.

"There's a man," Lucius began.

"A human man?" Draco asked, shooting his father a glare that to anyone else would have been incredibly unnerving.

"A human man," his father confirmed with a nod. "He has powers I've never seen before – can manipulate people's reality, and not just Earth's reality."

"So, you're asking me to follow a magician," Draco groaned sarcastically although inwardly his father's brief explanation was more than concerning. "Fucking wonderful."

His father seemed unbothered by the comment, however, and he continued without so much as a pause.

"He wants to change things," Lucius explained. "Wants to usher in a world where humans bend to our will not the other way around."

"I wouldn't exactly call what we do bending to anyone's will but our own, but okay," Draco mumbled, not caring if his father heard him or not.

"We're stuck playing a game that isn't ours," his father said. "We've been relegated as the pawns in something we can't control, and it's far past time for it to end."

Draco snorted. "And you think jumping ship to play pawn to someone else is the answer?" he asked incredulously.

"This one doesn't want control," his father told him. "He'll give that to us willingly if we help him accomplish the one thing that he can't do alone."

"And what is that?"

"The complete destruction of Heaven and Hell."

And Draco didn't even attempt to hide his surprise because the idea wasn't just stupid – and it was on so many other levels than one – it was also a cancerous thought, one that, if left unchecked, would undoubtedly threaten the very world that those entities had been created to manipulate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song - Animal by Maroon 5
> 
> a/n: I'm the worst - clearly, I have no concept of how long these updates are going to take me. One of these days, I'm really going to find a way to get these out faster, but until then… thank you to everyone who's been (ever so patiently) sticking with this! I'm also posting this after an exceptionally long day of staring at my computer screen, so any errors are the entirely the fault of my barely functioning eyeballs.


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